Embrace the World in Grey
by ramblingonandon
Summary: A test of loyalty and a game of betrayal leads Aramis into a world that he doesn't know and a position he doesn't want. [This is the story of the four years of war based on a previous one-shot I posted here.]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is the next installment to my story "** **The Hardest Part of Ending;"** **it may not make sense without reading that one first but then that story is just a oneshot, a small piece really so it won't take much time to read that one first :)**

 **Just to be clear italics are memories.**

 **There will be some mature themes alluded to in this story but nothing too descriptive. At least that's what I've assumed but if anyone feels different just PM me and let me know.**

 **To anyone reading my other story, I haven't forgotten it just searching for an inspiration to break the wall I've hit, the plot is there but the words won't come so working on that one a few paragraphs at a time.**

 **Disclaimer:** **I own nothing recognizable in this work, not making any money either. The lyrics at the start and the end are the inspiration for this story.**

 **Warning** **: Language and Violence**

* * *

 _ **I close both locks below the window; I close both blinds and turn away**_

 _ **Sometimes solutions aren't so simple; sometimes goodbye's the only way**_

– _ **Linkin Park; [Shadow of the Day]**_

* * *

He had waited two days.

Given them a head-start before he took to the road again.

Before he traded his hat and coat for a hood and a cloak.

Before he tied his weapons' belt without the blue of his sash under it.

His fingers lingered over the edge of the leather looped about his waist; hesitant to leave the weight of his weapons there without the snug protection of the Musketeers sash. A gust of wind at his back pressed his hood against his head and his cloak flapped at his ankles. Aramis turned around to eye the dark line of the storm-front that had been chasing him for hours now. With a shake of his head he buckled the last strap of the saddle, hooked a toe in the stirrup and swung up on his ride, patting his horse in silent apology for the little time it had been afforded to rest.

Even as Aramis dug his heels in the animal's flanks the first splash of the drizzle accosted him.

By the time he reached _Les Routes Perdues_ , the sky above had rolled into a perpetual deep silver dusk and the world was swathed in thick sheets of rain. His boots squelched in the mud as he dropped down and gave the reins of his horse to the stable-hand before tossing him a coin.

"I'm looking for the owner of this fine establishment," he said.

"Monsieur Henri the barkeep runs the Inn," grunted the man as he turned away.

Aramis snagged the reins and stopped him with a sharp tug, the horse neighing softly against the abrupt halt. The scruffy faced man regarded him with a scowl and wiped the water from his face.

"I'm looking for the owner," Aramis repeated.

The stable-hand nodded towards the door beside the Inn.

"Madame Pascal," he said.

"Thank you,"

She was a wisp of an old lady with much too nimbleness in her creaking bones. Aramis followed her down to the cellar of her home as she glided ahead, white curls aglow by the lantern she held aloft in her bony hand. Moving to the far corner of the cellar Madame Pascal glanced over her shoulder.

"My grandson doesn't know about this, best it stays that way," she said.

"Of course Madame," he offered her a smile.

Sharp blue eyes found his own and held; searching and sifting through his soul.

"You're not like the rest of 'em," she said.

Aramis arched a brow.

"The other de l'Ombre, eight of 'em came in this village last I knew," she said, "Sent them all on to the house, you're the only one I was told to bring down here."

"A dubious honor don't you think," his teeth flashed in a not quite a grin.

The woman shrugged and lowering the lamp swiped her foot over the dust covered ground. It clinked with the ring of metal that marked out a trap door. Without a word Aramis stepped up and pulled it open for her. Madame Pascal reached into the crook in the wall beside her and pulled out a candle that she lit with the lantern flame. Closing the glass she kept the candle to herself and handed over the lamp to Aramis.

"Can't risk open flame down 'ere," she said.

He held the lamp over the opening in the ground of the cellar and the light cast thick shadows of the wooden ladder rungs hanging by the wall. Aramis stared down at the gaping black maw beyond, the cool earthy draft that greeted him sent a prickle down his spine. He looked to the old woman who tilted her head to the side.

"Well what're you waitin' for?" she asked.

Realizing that he was on his own Aramis offered her a small bow and stepped onto the ladder, his breath catching when it creaked and dipped a bit.

"There's a satchel left f'r you down 'ere," Madame Pascal told him, "and you can take whatever supplies you need for you an' your men,"

"That is very generous of you Madame,"

"Just doin' what I'm paid for," she said.

It took him more minutes to reach the end of the ladder than he would have liked but Aramis was glad to step down onto a surprisingly hard floor. The stale chill air leeched the warmth from his skin as he looked about the room that was built of stone and filled with barrels, big and small. He didn't need to be told that it was gun powder. Moving the lantern towards the wall Aramis smirked as swords and daggers glinted from where they hung on wooden frames. The light skittered over the open barrels that held metal balls and he silently moved closer to inspect the crates of muskets and pistols that had caught his eye.

There was enough ammunition to support a small regiment for a short time or an even smaller company for a longer period; Aramis wondered how long was this war that the Minister had planned out and how long would it go beyond the bounds of that planning. He took the satchel that was hanging by the blades and wagered that the other seven would at least be armed with their own swords. He would have to return here after he had seen what they had already brought and plan out their resources according to the instructions he was sure were left in the satchel. The leather bag was heavy, the papers inside crunching subtly.

With one final look around at the ammunition that the Minister had left for him Aramis climbed up the stairs and out of the trapdoor. Madame Pascal merely grunted when he told her that he'd be coming by again soon. Her little house fairly shuddered by the sound of thunder as the storm raged over the village and tore through the air with occasional crackles of lightning.

"You'll need that to see your way out there," she handed him the lantern again and nodded towards further inside the village, "it's the last house to the right," she said.

"Of course it is," Aramis looked away from the open door, "thank you Madame,"

He pulled up his hood and stepped out into the rain. Fat drops of water soaked through his cloak five steps out and Aramis decided against taking his horse out of the stables for the night. Shifting the satchel to keep it clear of any water he took to the dirt road that was turning into sludge under his boots; where the land refused to mix with water, muddy puddles settled in smug dominance.

Wiping the wet hair that clung to his face and pricked in his eyes Aramis pushed the drenched hood off of his head. Water trickled down from the folds of the cloak about his neck and down his spine, his shirt beginning to cling to him as he walked further in the rain. He missed his hat; he missed his coat, missed Porthos laughing at d'Artagnan for looking like a drowned rat in the storm and Athos' sharp voice ordering them to keep an eye out for shelter.

The clouds rumbled; a sound of anger and betrayal like the look on Porthos' face when Aramis had refused to join them in the war. They had come for him and he had turned them away, betrayed them in a way that neither of them could have imagined.

" _Did you ever think that we'd abandoned you?"_

" _Never,"_

Porthos' reply had been instant.

Aramis picked up his pace. His lamp flickered, the flame thinning. A crack of lightening split the skies and his lantern snuffed out. But he didn't stop, he could not. Aramis hurried along the slippery track of runny mud. They had been out numbered and out gunned, he had just made a traitor of the man he called one of his brothers. Athos had still rolled the last of his musket ball to him, a rare smile softening his face.

"… _did I mention that this has to count?"_

He could not see where he was going, water in his eyes blurred his vision; the rain on his face was warm, running down in rivulets that left salt on his lips and a bitter flavor in his mouth. The lantern hung useless in his grasp, swinging along his rapid trudge its creaking lost in the din of the storm, drowned out by the blood pounding in Aramis' ears. The surprise on Athos' face and the disbelief in d'Artagnan's voice at his refusal to join them echoed in his head, the hurt he had seen in Porthos' eyes flashed before his own. The back of his free hand wiped at his split lip that had scabbed over in the days following.

" _If this gets me hanged, I will take it very personally,"_

He had been young and eager to get a commission in the Musketeers but d'Artagnan had taken his word; accepted it over what he had witnessed with his own eyes.

With a gasp Aramis stopped.

Dropped the useless lantern and bent forwards in an attempt to catch his breath, his throat too dry and too thick to make room for air. The crushing weight of his decision slammed into him and Aramis coughed, eyes burning as he pressed a hand to his chest at the very real pain of what he had let go, of what he had cut out and cast off.

" _You can escape Aramis. Have a different life faraway from danger."_

" _I've never fled from danger in my life, how will I live with myself if I abandoned my duty,"_

He had bled for his duty to the crown since before he had a proper scruff on his face, but now he wondered about the head it rested on. He had held two kings of France in his arms, a true one deemed false and a false one deemed true, babes whose destiny was sealed by the whims of those in power. And that had left him here, floundering on a treacherous road searching where his duty lay. To find meaning again in a life filled with violence.

" _If you'd told us what you were doing, we might have been able to plan this properly."_

" _Yes sorry,"_

" _No, no, let's keep it suicidal,"_

A dry, rough laugh burst forth from him.

He found the meaning exactly where it had always been, in their brotherhood.

That was it. That was the reason he had to do this because he knew without a doubt that those men he called his brothers would follow him. Into danger, up to the gallows, into death and even hell if that was where he was heading. And he could not let them do that.

Aramis straightened.

Wiped at his face once, shoulders squaring and eyes set ahead.

He had fought for the crown with loyalty, served his king with pride.

He would fight for his brothers in his betrayal, protect them in his disgrace.

His steps did not falter; his stride was sure as he walked on to the last house on the right. It was bigger than he had expected, a two storey block of stone and wood. Not bothering to knock he pushed open the door and stomped over the threshold into the main room. Two men looked around from where they were perched on rickety chairs by the glowing fireplace and the third perched on the table edge paused in wiping down his sword. For a stretch of minutes no one spoke, the crackling of firewood and the drip drip drip of water filled the silence between the thunder echoing in the house.

Aramis took off his cloak and hung it on the nail by the door, his wet boots squeaking as he stepped ahead.

"Gentlemen," his smile held no warmth.

"And who might you be?"

"Another de l'Ombre," he replied.

The large man set down his sword and took to his feet, Aramis watched him pointedly rest a hand on the pistol at his side and was intensely aware of the soaked condition of his own weapon. The large man stepped away from the table, blue eyes shining from behind the scraggly curtain of straw colored hair.

He glanced at the satchel at Aramis' side and grunted to himself.

"Alois," he said.

"Rene,"

Aramis glanced at the two by the fire, demanding introductions without words. The men looked him up and down, clearly estimating his worth and grit. The desire to straighten up, to stiffen his spine crept up only to be stamped out; Aramis knew he needed to appear above their judgment despite the instinctual desire to verify himself.

"Devereux," said the dark skinned man.

The narrow faced man at his side offered half a sneer.

"Mousequeton," he said.

A scream pierced the air; shrill and wet.

The sound of quarrel from down the narrow corridor echoed out. The screech of furniture and a thump on wood could not drown out the sound of men arguing, but the scream had been feminine. Pushing past Alois Aramis hurried down to where the sound had come from and found a tangle of limbs rolling on the floor as an old man hung onto to a much larger one outside of a closed door.

The door through which echoed another petrified screech.

The three on the floor slammed into the wall and came to a halt. Ignoring the colorful insults spitted out like unchecked sparks Aramis stepped over the three near his feet and pulled the old man off of the man by the door.

"Please, my daughter," the sunken watery eyes flashed from him to the man at the door, "my daughter."

The silence in the room beyond was disturbing.

"Step aside," Aramis said to the one guarding the door.

"Go to hell,"

"We're all there already," Aramis bit out, "now step aside."

The giant by the door snorted, his hand reaching for his pistol.

But Aramis got there first.

Slamming the man back he pulled out the pistol from his belt even as the larger man fell through into the room he had been guarding. Aramis followed him in and leveled the pistol onto the half dressed man on the bed, a squirming girl pinned in his grasp.

"Let her go,"

The man from the bed grinned back at him.

"Wait your turn," he said.

"You're done here," Aramis glanced at the girl before fixing his eyes back onto the man, "you want to have fun then go find a willing woman."

The man laughed.

"Who made you our boss?"

"Consider it a self-appointed prerogative," Aramis cocked the pistol, "now get off the bed."

He didn't have to see to know that two men had their swords pointed his way. One of them was the man who had been at the door. From the corner of his eye he caught that one shift on his feet just as the man on the bed reached for something in the covers.

Aramis fired; turned to avoid the blade coming for his heart and buried his own dagger in his attacker in one motion.

He looked back when the girl kept screaming. She shoved off the man who lay dead over her with a pistol in his lax hand. Sobbing and clutching at her chemise she stumbled off the bed and into her father's arms. And Aramis drew out his own sword to meet the man lunging for him, catching his blade against his own before it could slice his throat.

It was short and brutal and ended with Aramis' sword cleaving through the other man's gut.

Breathing heavily he slid his sword back in his belt and retrieved his dagger from the other dead man. The room stank of warm blood and Aramis cleaned his blade on the bed sheets, hands never shaking, eyes never betraying the sickening feeling pooling in his gut. He had killed three men out of the eight he was supposed to lead. He didn't even know the names of the dead. It settled like a boulder on his back, in that spot between his shoulders this weight of what he had agreed to do.

He was no leader.

Aramis walked past the two men staring through the door and back to the main room. He eyed the men who gathered there after him, hands lingering over weapons and eyes studying his every move. He shoved away the utter fear of the position he had decided to take and met their gazes head on.

"Does anyone else have a problem with my authority?"

Five pair of eyes stared back.

The two dark haired young men, who had been fighting in the corridor with one of the men Aramis had killed, were the first to shake their heads. They were young, too young Aramis decided and looked away from them. Not daring to think of how they reminded him of d'Artagnan.

The other three remained silent but no one protested.

"That," Aramis pointed towards the corridor, "is not acceptable, if anyone has an opinion otherwise walk away now."

When no one moved Aramis nodded to himself.

It was well as he could have hoped for but he needed to plan, needed space to find his instructions and allow his nerves to settle. As the father and daughter emerged from the corridor Aramis picked up the candle from over the mantle and lighting it with the flame in the hearth he made towards the stairs.

"Captain?"

He jerked to a halt.

Treville was Captain, Athos was Captain.

"Rene," Aramis corrected the man.

"Bazin," said the one who had his hair tied back at the nape of his neck and nodded towards the curly haired young man at his side, "that's Planchet. What should we do with the bodies?"

Throw them out he wanted to say but stopped at the last second, suppressing a shiver at uncharacteristic retort that had nearly passed his lips. That was not who he was but he had no idea how much of himself would be left if he lived to see this end. Who would he be at the other side of this?

"We'll burry them when the rain stops," he said.

All eyes turned to another figure that entered the house as the father and daughter were hurrying out. Even in the flickering shadows and the limited glow from the fireplace Aramis could tell that there was a woman under the thick cloak that seemed to have survived the rain much better than his own. The hood flipped back and a young face framed by dark hair and hard blue eyes that had seen too much roamed over the men before coming to settle on Aramis.

"Did I miss the welcome ceremony?" she asked.

"Did you lose your way Mademoiselle?" Devereux asked.

"Didn't we all?" she smiled at them as she shed her cloak, "besides, a lady has to keep up appearances; arriving on time is just isn't done in the fashionable society."

Her words stood in contrast to the clearly men's attire she had donned as well as the rapier and the pistol at her side. She grinned at the surprised faces, her knee length boots clicking along the wooden floor as she came to stand before Aramis.

"You must be the one in charge of this little company," she tipped an invisible hat, "Kitty de l'Ombre, at your command,"

Aramis took one look at the clearly appreciative roving eyes of the three men behind her and at the younger two at his side who seemed to be standing painfully rigid, in an effort to look taller most likely. And he wondered if the Minister was laughing at him in his grand office at the Palace.

"Rene de l'Ombre," he said, "you're taking a room upstairs."

"I'm a big girl Rene; I can take care of myself,"

Her smile left no doubt that she could, neither did the line of small throwing daggers gleaming in her belt.

"You're still taking one of the rooms upstairs,"

She slinked closer, her hand coming to rest over his heart as she tipped up onto her toes and leaned closer. Her breath warm against his cheek as her mouth hovered inches from his ear.

"Are you taking a room up there too?" she asked, pulled back slightly until her lips hovered over his, "Would you like me to keep you company? I could keep you warm all night long,"

Aramis smiled; recognized the ruse for what it was an attempt to gain position and power in the group. His grasped the slim waist and gently pushed her back a little, caught the gleam of half a scorn in her eyes and winked at her.

"You wouldn't be able to keep up Mademoiselle," he said.

"That's all great but where're we supposed to go?" Mousequeton asked.

"There's another blood free room down here," Aramis hadn't missed the door in the hallway, "and there's enough space by the fire,"

"Well that's settled," Kitty shrugged, "now has anyone started on dinner yet? I'm hungry."

"There's the kitchen," Mousequeton nodded towards the door by the fireplace.

"He who found it shall use it," Kitty declared.

With that Aramis left them to sort out the duties amongst themselves. He slipped into the nearest room upstairs, relived to find a narrow bed and a lonely chair. He closed the door after him and leaned back against it. His legs folding under him as he slid down until he was on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut against the doubts in his mind, against the smell of blood in snow and the squeak of wheels under the weight of the frozen dead, against the rows of coffins and the freshly turned earth. He could not think of the twenty he had led out for training in Savoy, it wouldn't do to wonder about his own ability to lead.

Not now, that time has passed.

Aramis breathed out through his nose and opened his eyes.

"I hope you're doing better than me my brothers," he murmured.

Gathered his strength to unfold himself, pulled close the chair with his foot and carefully set the candle on its seat. Taking off his wet shirt he hung it on the back rest, suppressing the shiver as the cold air touched his damp skin. Hunching forwards he began taking out the contents of the satchel. Pulled out the writing material, the bottle of ink sealed tight with wax. Unfolded the maps he found and laid them out before him on the floor. He retrieved the sealed letter last even as he unrolled a piece of leather that was no bigger than his hand and filled with holes.

Smoothing out the letter that spoke in great detail of his uncle's life in Paris Aramis placed the leather on top of it, making sure that the carving in the corner of the leather was in the bottom right corner. Opening the bottle of ink he began decoding the instructions even before he began writing them down, his mind quick to pick out the letters through the holes in the leather cipher and stringing them together into new words.

* * *

Athos looked up from the maps he was bent over.

The Musketeer hovering at his door started as their eyes met and hastened inside, his hat gripped tight in his hands as he stood at attention. He was one of the new ones Athos realized, naïve and inexperienced, recruited to swell their ranks before they could be cut down at the frontlines.

"What is it Cornett?"

"Its d'Artagnan Captain, he sent me to you to tell you…" the man looked to the floor.

"What?"

Athos had come around his desk, hat on his head and his rapier at his side. Last he had talked to d'Artagnan the younger man had been going home to Constance for the night. The crick in his neck and the twinge in his back told him that it was nearing midnight. His heartbeat picked up pace.

"Speak up Musketeer,"

"He said to – to tell you to come down to The Gold Pit immediately."

Athos blinked.

He couldn't imagine how d'Artagnan had found himself in that hovel of a tavern where even the Red Guards feared to tread. Built at the edge of Paris, it was filled every sort of passing criminals and most of the locals too. Most of all the place doubled as a notorious brothel which explained Cornett's hesitation but not why d'Artagnan was even there.

"He said to tell you; it's Porthos,"

That propelled him past the surprised Musketeers, out of his office and down to the yard. Not waiting to get a horse he hurried out into the streets, hoping against hope that his friends were safe, relatively speaking. He knew why Porthos would have gone there, the man was itching for a fight and d'Artagnan would of course had seen it fit to keep him company. They were both good, but not good enough to take on a dozen cut-throat criminals.

He should have been with them; he should have paid more attention, kept a closer eye on Porthos.

Athos broke into a light run as he made his way through the sleeping city; silently cursing himself for failing a brother again. Because if he had been more vigilant that night, if he had paid mind to the agony in Aramis' eyes as he held the dead nun in his grasp, if he had given thought to the haunted look that lingered in his face as Athos had explained his plans after, if he had offered company to ease the lonely stoop in brother's shoulders.

They might not be in this situation.

They might still be the Inseparables.

" _You didn't try to stop it?"_

" _If I'd known what he was going to do. I would have shot him myself,"_

It was a blatant lie.

He had kept the man's secret, incriminated himself by association and yet had done his best to keep Aramis' treason in the dark. No he would never let any of his brothers die if he could help it, Athos' hand curled around the hilt of his rapier, it was not Aramis' actions that pained him, it were the lack of his own. He knew Aramis; he should have read the pain between the lines in his distracted answers to his plans that night in the convent.

He turned the corner and stopped.

As the drunken figures stumbled past him, loud and rowdy in the cold night the sudden awareness of the reality he faced left him swaying. He was a Captain in time of war; he would be leading men to their deaths and standing there in the stench of wine, vomit and rotting fruits he felt unexpectedly alone.

" _Athos sometimes I think I'm doomed to always want the things I cannot have,"_

And a part of him hoped that it was true for his brother. The part of him that was vindictive, hurting, feeling betrayed and frightened under the weight of his new position without the support of his friends wished that Aramis was feeling every bit of that curse at the moment. That he was tucked away in a room at the monastery and wishing with all his heart that he was there with them.

Because he needed to have him here with them too.

Needed him to lighten the depressing hours of planning that would inevitably lead to men dying at his orders. Wanted to depend on his military knowledge he pretended not to have and his understanding of difficult choices.

Athos forced his legs to take his weight and set one foot after the other. He eyed the tavern that shook with the raucous within and watched as the narrow door opened; a jumble of arms, legs and groans spilled out. Quickening his steps Athos reached the heap as the figures separated, one of them landing in an unconscious heap by his feet as the one who had shoved him off pushed to his feet.

"D'Artagnan?"

"Help me with him,"

The younger man reached down and Athos followed his example. The two of them heaved up a dazed Porthos. He stank of wine and a sharp cheap perfume, but Athos' eyes were drawn to the dark patch on the sleeve under his hand. That gash would need to be stitched.

"No one's coming near me with a bloody needle!"

Porthos shoved away from them even as Athos wondered when he had said it out loud and why. Because stitches were Aramis' domain, when the world left them full of nicks and rips it was Aramis' job to put them together again with his needle and his words, sometimes with his silence.

Athos reached out to steady Porthos but his hand stopped mid way as the big man slapped away d'Artagnan's helping grip and staggered to put some distance between them. He managed a few steps on shaky legs and threw out a hand to hold onto a wall when his legs threatened to buckle.

A painful whine borne of sorrow and frustration came from d'Artagnan at his side.

But Athos was staring at the big man who had his shoulders hunched forwards and his curly head bent as he used the wall to stay upright.

Wide brown eyes flashed in Athos' vision even as he felt a phantom tug at his collar.

" _Don't you care about Porthos?"_

Don't you he wanted to ask.

Don't you care about him, about all of us?

Didn't you give a damn you bastard?

"He had no right," Porthos told the night, "he had no right to – to –" he inhaled wetly, "he had no right –"

To get them used to his kindness and compassion, to make them trust him to watch their backs, to have them seek out his company when life beat them down. Aramis had no right to pull them both out of their comfortable isolations and weave them into a brotherhood.

He had no right to that if he was to deliberately vanish from their lives like this.

Athos rested a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

Closed his eyes against the abject shaking he could feel in his grasp.

"He did not," he agreed.

Porthos straightened, slipped out of Athos' clasp and let go of the wall he had been leaning against.

"I hate him," his voice was stone.

Cold, smooth, hard.

"No you don't," d'Artagnan spoke up.

Athos looked to their youngest as he ran a hand through his hair and took a few steps ahead, turned back and retraced them before going at it again, his head shaking as he muttered to himself. Until he stopped at the third turn and pinned the two of them with a fierce glare.

"You don't hate him. Neither of you," he said, voice catching in his throat, "you can't."

Athos bit back a wince, the man sounded too young.

"You can't hate him, you're the Inseparables,"

"Not anymore," Porthos snapped, " 'e took care of that."

"Porthos," d'Artagnan shook his head, "you forget who we're talking about, it's Ar –"

"Don't."

Athos flinched.

As much due to the vicious growl from Porthos as from the name that was almost spoken aloud. He had no idea why the thought of speaking the man's name felt like a shard of glass grating between his ribs but he could see that it had the same effect on Porthos.

"But –"

"Just don't."

Porthos shook his head and moved on ahead. Athos wanted to stop him; to accompany him but even d'Artagnan was left rooted to the spot by the clear warning in the other man's movements. They didn't say a word as the big man walked down to the end of the street and turned right. At his side d'Artagnan sighed and followed their friend's footsteps, but at the end of the street he turned left.

Athos had no idea how long he stood there until a shiver coursed through his body. The winter night had a heaviness in the air, there was a storm near the city Athos could tell and as he pursed his lips to keep from heaving in gulping breaths he hoped that it would dissipate before it reached them. He glanced to the different pathways his friends had taken and felt the city close in around himself.

" _I'm bored, I miss Paris. The excitement, the noise, the danger..."_

"We miss you too brother," he whispered into the night.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think! No action in this one I know but it'll come.**

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Somewhere at the border of France…**_

It was absurd d'Artagnan decided, the way they went about the morning routines as if the army across the stretch did not exist. As if after breakfast and chores they would not all be charging on towards death, many embracing it before they had a chance to be its instrument for another. He saddled his horse and stepped away from the animal, his armour clanking slightly at the edges as he accommodated for the weight of his new uniform.

He knew it was for his own safety but d'Artagnan still stuck a finger in the collar of the breastplate and wriggled it to ease some of the pressure.

"You ready?"

He looked to Porthos and shrugged.

"As I'll ever be,"

D'Artagnan was proud that his voice didn't shake. He had been in fights and faced many weapons intent on taking his life, but there was still a touch of hesitation as he prepared to ride into his very first battle. He watched Porthos study the enemy line and felt a pang at not even expecting that confident smirk that he hadn't witnessed on Porthos' face since they had ridden out of the monastery at Douai.

He turned to Athos as the Captain walked up to them.

"Nervous?"

"A little,"

"Good," Athos nodded, "it'll keep you alive."

He followed Porthos' line of sight and his eyes hardened, his face setting into a blank mask before he blinked. The two men turned away from the enemy in unison and back to each other. Their eyes met, Porthos made to speak but stopped and Athos nodded, their gazes skittered away to the ground, to the enemy and back at d'Artagnan.

He offered a smile he wasn't feeling up to.

He wanted to say something, to offer words of hope, of reassurance but none came. There had been a silence between them, an awkward one. And d'Artagnan didn't know how to break it without breaking the tentative truce they seemed to have agreed upon. Because every gesture, every story, every shared joke led them back to the one not among them.

All for one and one for all.

D'Artagnan's eyes prickled suddenly at the thought. It was Aramis who would initiate that oath between them and now they just stood staring at each other, daring one of them to step up in that place.

"Stay safe," Athos said finally.

"Both of you," Porthos nodded.

"All of us," d'Artagnan emphasized.

He reached out to grasp a shoulder of each of his brothers and they held on to him as well as each other. For a moment they were connected; not the way they were used to, not the way they were supposed to, but still together.

When they stepped back neither of them said aloud what all of them felt missing.

As Athos went to check on his men readying for the charge d'Artagnan mounted his horse and followed Porthos. They urged their horses to the front of the regiment and stopped on either side of their Captain. With his own heart beating loudly in his ears d'Artagnan caught nothing of what Athos said to the regiment at his command. But he did feel the pulse of courage that went through the men, saw the faces shifting from anxious to determined, backs straightening in pride as the horses nickered and pawed the ground.

And then they were off.

Thundering ahead to meet the oncoming wave of Spanish army. Musket shots tore through the air and even as he ducked from the corner of his eye d'Artagnan saw their men falling from their saddles. His eyes sought out the enemy and saw their soldiers dropping too. Neither army stopped. The dead and the wounded trampled underfoot as the remaining horses rode on; the soldiers meeting in a clash of swords.

D'Artagnan met the enemy blade with his own. Its force reverberating up to his shoulder as he blocked the swing and forced the sword point around and away from him, disengaged and stabbed the man only to have another replace him. He leaned back just in time to avoid a jab at his side, the reins pulled taut in his effort to stay in the saddle.

His horse reared.

The earth tilted, the sky tipped.

He landed on his back, hard.

D'Artagnan gasped; pain rippling through his ribs and echoing in his head. His chest tightened and he sucked in a breath, felt it burn in his throat and coil within his ribcage. Patches of sky mixed with frantic shadows above him. He needed to move, he needed to get up, he needed his limbs to take his orders again.

" _I lay awake last night thinking. 'What am I doing here? This isn't my fight.' "_

" _Did you come up with an answer?"_

Silver gleamed in his view and his hand scrabbled to grasp his sword. Pulled it close and up in time to knock away the attack and cut through the man who was coming to finish him off. D'Artagnan groaned and rolled onto his side, kicked out at the man rushing at him.

" _This morning I realized it's just what I was born to do."_

" _You mean protect the innocent and fight against injustice?"_

Pushing to his feet d'Artagnan slashed at the Spanish soldier attacking him. Parry, thrust, riposte, shift and stab. Breathing heavily he pulled his sword out of the crumpling man and blinked at the view before him. The air tasted different, the world sharper and blurred at the same time as moments passed slow enough to magnify the flecks of dirt kicked up in the air and the warmth of blood that landed in a spray across his face. Yet they flew too fast for the way blades swung at him and he swung back, and death picked off men regardless of the uniform they wore.

" _Oh, that too. But mainly, you know, just to fight. To risk everything, put it all on the line. How else do I know I'm truly alive?"_

A wild sound between a snarl and a snort escaped him.

And d'Artagnan fought on. Cutting through one man after another even as his vision wavered, even as his arms shook with exertion and his legs shivered under the burden of death surrounding him. His heartbeat raced, his mouth was dry and the haze in his eyes refused to dissipate.

There were too many.

Too many, too many his heart ached.

Too many dead, too many alive.

There was no end to the onslaught.

He caught sight of it over the shoulder of the man he was straining against. Off to his side was the musket aimed his way. D'Artagnan tried to shift his footing, pushed against his opponent to use him as a cover but there was no time. The bang stopped him with a jolt. He blinked rapidly, eyelashes clinging together with sweat and grime.

But he could only stare as the man who had been about to shoot at him fell forward. D'Artagnan nearly caught a dagger in his side, stepping back at the last moment as he frowned at his savior who emerged in the dead man's stead. The figure in just another grubby armour was similar to the rest but it was different too, in a way the young Musketeer could not pin had little chance to note much accept for the glaringly obvious hood the person wore.

He was pushed back as more soldiers stepped over their dead comrades to take him on and d'Artagnan met them with the same fierceness with which he shoved away the fatigue settling in his muscles. He wondered where his friends were, where any of the other Musketeers were. It was a blood-spattered mayhem around him. Shifting back again he growled at how much ground he had lost and stepped on something.

Someone his mind registered dully as he fell on his rear, his bones shuddering at the impact as his sword fell from his strangely numb fingers. And as two men advanced on him he prayed. He prayed that Athos and Porthos would make out of the war alive and he prayed Constance would forgive him for leaving her.

And then the men fell; stabbed and cut down.

The same hooded figure appeared behind them before turned his back to him and took on the soldiers coming for d'Artagnan. The sight stirred something in him, rallied his dissipating strength and d'Artagnan clutched his sword again. Dug it point first in the earth and leaned on it to get back to his feet. He was not a child to be protected and he was not weak, he was a soldier, he was a Musketeer.

So he fought.

And when the horns bellowed and the soldiers retreated he was left standing amidst the dead; exhausted, bloody but alive. Wiping his face with his sleeve he looked around for the figure in the hood but there was no one.

"There you are!"

He jumped in his skin, clutched his sword tighter and stared wide eyed at the tall man.

"You alright d'Artagnan?"

"Porthos," he stared, tried to calm the wild rush in his veins and the shaking in his body.

He felt sick.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos' voice was gentle.

His hand impossibly careful as it rose, reached out and settled on the back of his neck. D'Artagnan exhaled, placed his sword back at his side and forced stiff fingers to let go of the rapier.

"You're alright," Porthos said, "you're alright, you made it."

He nodded, not trusting his voice yet.

"You did it d'Artagnan, it's over for now," said Athos.

He wondered when the Captain had come to stand at his side.

"You lived,"

"Thanks to that hooded soldier," he rasped.

"What?"

"He took a hit to the head Athos," Porthos' fingers touched the back of his skull, "it's bleeding,"

"It is?" d'Artagnan frowned.

He tried to touch it but Athos caught his wrist and shook his head.

"Could've been worse," d'Artagnan shrugged, "could've been dead if not for that soldier, the one in the hood."

"He's talking nonsense,"

"A hit to the head will do that to ya," Porthos gently pulled him along, "but you'll be right as rain in no time,"

* * *

He had pulled back when it seemed like the situation was in control again. He hadn't meant to risk exposure like that. He hadn't meant to break the first rule in the very first battle damnit!

Aramis pulled down the scarf that had covered half of his face and tucked it under his chin. Deeming he was at a safe enough distance he leaned against a tree and just breathed. Pushing back the hood he drew a hand through his sweat drenched hair, pulled lightly at the loose curls caught between his fingers. He shook his head.

It was stupid.

But when he had seen d'Artagnan fall off his horse and not come up immediately he couldn't remain in his perch in the tree line any longer.

It was stupid.

He was not sorry.

A sharp whistle had him looking up. He whistled back a soft tone, telling them it was safe to come out. And they did, three of them dropping down from the trees they had been hiding in. Devereux, Kitty and Mousequeton glanced back the way he had come.

"You look like you were chased," Mousequeton adjusted the strap of his musket at his back, "do we need to be worried?"

"No,"

"Your sword is bloody," Kitty said.

"So are my hands," Aramis shrugged, "is there something you want to clarify?"

The woman smiled, slow and deadly; her eyes boring into him even as she shook her head. Aramis was grateful he had remembered to dump the mixture of armour he had pulled together for himself, he hadn't paid mind whose side the dead soldiers were whom he had picked the metal pieces off from, but these people would have guessed his haste in the patchwork and there would have been questions. Questions he'd rather not face.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

The three that he had left at the other end of the clearing, he had a feeling that they should be here by now at the rendezvous point. As if summoned by his words there was a crack of twigs, a rush of feet and the four of them turned to the sound weapons raised.

"Whoa whoa it's us!"

"Don't shoot!"

Bazin gasped and bent to catch his breath even as Planchet plopped down on his rear.

"Where's Alois?"

Bazin frowned and looked back the way they had come from.

"He was right behind us," Planchet wiped at the curls sticking to his forehead, "The soldiers, they spotted us. They were on horses and we were on foot so we had to hide for a while."

"Find higher ground and pick them off," Bazin nodded.

He straightened as he rubbed the back of his neck where the twine tied in his hair scratched; turned all the way around to frown at the way behind him, looking displeased with the greenery as if it was the reason for all his woes.

"And then we made a run for it, didn't want to be late and Alois was with us," he said.

Aramis knew none of the soldiers who had seen the three would be alive; he only hoped that they were not French soldiers because the orders were to leave no living witnesses in either army. Another order he may have broken. Aramis pushed away from the tree and forced his thoughts to the present.

"You three back to the camp," he turned to Bazin and Planchet, "you two show me the path you took."

He stopped when no one moved to follow his orders. Aramis turned to find them staring at him.

"Were my orders too complicated for you all?"

"What're you doing?" Mousequeton asked.

"I am going with these two to find Alois, you three are going to the camp."

"He could have been captured," Devereux said.

"Or wounded,"

"He could be dead," Planchet shrugged.

"Either way there's no reason to go back and risk the same fate," said Kitty, "we go to the camp and then on to patrol as planned."

"Plans have changed, now get moving," Aramis snapped.

He turned away from them, hoping that they would accept the position he was masquerading in. Because the obvious confusion and the cold reasonability reminded him again of his own past, of his own reasons and he tried not to think about what he was doing pretending that he had this under control.

" _Well he knows the Musketeers' motto; 'every man for himself!' "_

The amusement was lost in witnessing it in practice and pressed on him only how different his life was now. His thoughts were disrupted as two pair of footsteps followed him.

"Were they Spanish soldiers?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yes," Planchet said, "we were making our way through the forest, avoiding the road and they came out of nowhere,"

"As if they'd sprung from the ground," Bazin nodded, he stepped ahead and motioned to his left where the earth rose at an incline, "this way Captain."

"Rene," he corrected.

"Of course,"

The younger man smiled, so did the other one and Aramis tried to ignore that the gesture were rare true ones. He followed their directions until he felt the prick at the edge of his senses; it was borne of a soldier's life and sharpened by a massacre in a frozen forest. Aramis stopped.

"Wh –"

He placed a finger on his lips and glared at Bazin. The younger men shared a confused look but he motioned for them to stay there and moved ahead, one hand on his pistol as he crouched slightly in the cover of shrubbery. When he peeked around the thick leaves it was to find man was sitting back against a tree, clutching his leg, his breathing shallow and harsh. That was what he had heard Aramis realized and called the other two to his side. They stepped out of the cover to meet the injured man who greeted them with a loaded pistol. The pistol that was aimed at Aramis' heart.

"Alois?"

Aramis wondered if the man had lost hold of his wits.

"Here to finish me off Rene?" the man snarled.

"What?"

"Shoot the lame horse 'cause he's of no use anymore?"

Oh.

Aramis had to consider if that was why the other two had followed him after all, if they had taken his insistence to go in search of Alois as a means to tie up loose ends. He didn't ponder on that though, didn't glance back at his companions but lifted his hand away from his own pistol. It was probably an insane move but Aramis had no idea how else to make the man trust him when clearly every person at his command had not a kernel of that sentiment.

"I'm here to take you back to the camp," he said.

"You think I'd believe that?"

"No I don't," Aramis said, rubbed his forehead with his fingers at the headache budding there; "I don't think you'd believe that."

He looked back to the two younger men who seemed to be eyeing him curiously but a part of him was relieved to find that they were not waving their weapons around. Taking the small mercy as it was offered he turned back to the man who still had his pistol aimed his way and shook his head slightly.

"The way I see it you may have more ammunition but little strength," he said, "enough to make one shot and I've got plenty of room to dodge it. You could take that shot, alert out enemies of our position and we'll see how it goes from there. Or you could sit there aiming at me and bleed out while you're at it. But if neither of that sounds fun you can trust me to help you, to do everything I can to get you back to our camp."

Alois scowled at him.

Eyes shifting from him to the other two before coming to rest of Aramis again

He had no idea who was more surprised of the four when Alois lowered his weapon. Hiding the relief that coursed through him Aramis approached the injured man and took a place by his bleeding leg. The wound was curled around the lower leg, sliced through the top of Alois' boot and bleeding heavily. Aramis pressed down on the worst of it, grateful that the man bit back the cry that threatened to escape him.

Alois leaned back against the tree.

"Stepped in a snare," he said, "And twisted my ankle too,"

Aramis nodded and turned to the two men who were watching him with morbid fascination. He snapped his fingers to get their attention and sent them to find sticks.

"Straight, sturdy and as smooth as you can manage," he said, "I need to splint his ankle,"

The two hurried off and Aramis eyed the jumble of wire and sticks on Alois' other side. The remains of the trap were coated in blood and as he swiped a finger over it, Aramis could tell that it was serrated. Pulling the scarf from around his neck he tied it around the bleeding wound as the younger men returned with a handful of sticks to choose from and Aramis used them with Alois' belt to immobilize the ankle that he could feel swollen even through the boot.

As he helped the man up the sound of hooves thundering closer brought them all to a halt.

"The Spanish?" Planchet asked.

"We'll see,"

They crouched down into the greenery as the horses neared. Aramis moved closer to the edge and peered through the cover of leaves as the riders went by. Five of them riding off on the narrow road below but even from the distance and the speed with which they went Aramis could recognize one of them.

"What're you up to Athos?" he murmured to himself.

"Is it the Spanish?"

He turned to find Bazin at his side.

"French," Aramis said, "You and Planchet get Alois to the camp. I'll meet you there,"

He didn't wait for his reply and rose in a stoop to hurry along in the direction the riders had gone. It was obvious something serious was afoot if the Captain had to leave his men at the frontlines a few hours after they had been in a battle.

* * *

He slowed his horse to a trot.

Pulled out his pistol and glanced at the raised earth on either side of the track. It was a perfect position for an ambush, good sight of the road from above and plenty of cover. Athos ignored the pull at the gash on his arm and kept his pistol aloft, gently nudging his horse to move. The other four followed his example.

And soon he saw the dead scattered on the road ahead.

The remains of General Armand's scouting party.

The reek of dead flesh and dried blood reached out to him as he neared. Athos forced down the rising bile and dismounted. There were three men in French uniform, he glanced back at the pale man in their company and nodded. Marcoux was in the regiment under General Armand's charge and been the bringer of news from there although it was not the one he had been hoping for.

"We were ambushed further ahead," Marcoux said, "or further back. I rode past them when I escaped from there."

"These are your men too?"

"A scouting party sent out day before last," Marcoux said.

Athos understood now why the General hadn't come to join their ranks at the battlefield as had been ordered. They were to launch into the first battle with enough force to crush the Spanish army at this front; instead they had been out numbered today.

The image of a dazed d'Artagnan and a grimacing Porthos flashed before his eyes.

"When they didn't return, we were sent out," Marcoux said, "and we were ambushed too. There were six of us. I made it out."

"Did you notice anything out of usual?" Athos asked, "The Spanish must have a hideout here to lie in wait,"

"I didn't have the chance, they were just upon us."

"How many?"

"More than a dozen," Marcoux said, "they had horses, blocked our way and shot us down."

Athos turned back to his men.

They were exhausted, he could read it in their eyes but the Captain couldn't afford to give them a reprieve, not yet. He promised himself that he would try not to put them on guard duty for the night and steeled himself for what he was about to order.

"We're riding ahead to where Marcoux was ambushed," he said, "We'll be easy prey in possibly enemy terrain from here on ahead. Stay alert."

"Yes Captain,"

"I'll take point, Cornet you're at the other end."

He hoped they'd survive this.

Athos urged his horse ahead as the other four fell in a line behind him, all eyes scanning the edge of the ground above. He kept up a slow pace, focusing more on the shadows that the trees above cast on the slope than the foliage itself. That was why he caught the flitting movement ahead and looked up to catch the gleam of a musket barrel just before the shot rang out.

"Ambush!" he warned.

They fired back.

Dismounting quickly he pressed back against the incline to get out of the line of fire. Athos reached out as far as he could, the gash on his arm bleeding afresh and threatening to shake his aim. He waited as the man behind the tree trunk peeked out and then he fired. It went wide. Athos glanced at the men beside him, pulled his eyes away from the inert form lying on the road and did a mental roll call of those present. Henri, it was Henri, the barber's son was now another name to the list of condolence letters he had to write.

Pulling his thoughts to the present he pressed back against the dirt, ducking down slightly as more shots slammed into the earth by his feet. He could tell that there were three men firing at them. But the smaller number had a better position than them. Athos took a breath, his muscles coiled for movement as he searched for an opening. The crack and rustle surprised him as something heavy rolled by and landed near his foot. It was one of the shooters, dead with a broken neck.

Not dwelling on his good luck at finding his enemy dead by a clumsy fall, Athos took the chance to rush up the slope shooting down the next enemy. Breathing heavily he cursed under his breath as the third shooter broke into a run. Instincts demanded he take aim and fire but his mind stayed his hand. Instead Athos gave chase and rammed into the man, bringing him down hard. As his opponent scrambled under his grasp he pulled the man onto his back and punched him across the face, knocking him out with the blow.

This man would be their way to find where the rest of the Spanish soldiers were hiding.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. You people are the best readers anyone could ask for, thank you for all your wonderful comments; especially guest reviewer Jmp whom I cannot thank personally.**


	3. Chapter 3

He made his way back.

The shadows were growing longer by then.

Aramis stopped by his horse and took out the medical supplies he kept in his saddlebag. Pulling out the bundle he stared at his hands. It had been a while since he had snapped someone's neck with his bare hands; he couldn't decide what frightened him more, the fact that he hadn't even blinked at the deed when he saw the man aiming for the back of Athos' head or that his hands didn't shake after.

"Trouble?" Devereux asked from where he stood watch.

"Possibly," Aramis said.

He made his way past the small fire over which Mousequeton was stirring a pot and glaring at Kitty who was perched on a fallen log in a patch of pale sunlight, a look of smug anticipation on her face. The man hadn't forgiven her yet for harassing him into kitchen duties. Something about womanly domain had been mentioned at the house and Mousequeton's manhood had been threatened in physical terms but Aramis had avoided the details. When he reached Alois who was sitting propped up by a saddle he found the two younger men hovering over his shoulder.

"How many soldiers did you shoot down?" Aramis asked.

"Five," Bazin replied, "they were trying to run us down,"

"Like it was a game to them," Planchet nodded.

"It was," Alois said.

Grit his teeth against the sting as Aramis doused his wound with spirits.

"They were enjoying the chase,"

"I didn't find any bodies," Aramis said.

He cleaned the wound thoroughly before sitting back on his heels. Wiping his hands with a rag he pulled out the map from the pocket in his breeches and handed it to Planchet. As the younger man unfolded it Aramis smoothed the thread that was already in the needle.

"Can you point out where you were when they attacked you?" he asked.

The two younger men spread the map between them and Aramis looked to Alios. The man nodded in understanding at the pain that was coming and Aramis plunged the needle in the sliced flesh. It was a process he could do in his sleep; had done it many times half awake and barely conscious. His thoughts trailed over to his brothers, wondering if they would be in need of stitches too.

"My son wants to be one of them," Alois said.

Aramis paused, knew that the man was looking for a distraction from the pain but the information he shared was not light. He caught the man's blue eyes and hoped to convey that he understood the risk Alois was taking trusting him with this.

"One of the soldiers?" he asked.

"A Musketeer," Alois snorted, "I think he'd be better off a farmer."

"I'd love to be a farmer," Planchet piped in, "grow lots and lots of wheat and bake fresh bread every day to eat."

"And raise sheep;" Bazin grinned at him, "we'll have meat and bread every day. Never ever go hungry again."

"And cows, don't forget cows," Planchet said.

"Fresh milk as much as we want," Bazin agreed.

Aramis shook his head.

"Lads," his tone half exasperated half fond.

"Yes, yes the attack," they nodded to each other.

Dipped their heads back over the map and Aramis found a true smile curling at the corners of his lips. It was a strange movement on his face, as if his features couldn't remember the gesture. His eyes dimmed and he pulled his mind back to the task at hand.

"But he's young," Alois said, "last I saw he was nine, all elbows and knees,"

Aramis didn't miss the wistful edge in his voice, couldn't overlook the twinge of yearning for a lost family that he felt so resoundingly in his own heart. He finished the stitches and lifting the man's foot onto his knee he began prodding it to judge the damage. His patient hissed.

"When was that?" he asked, "when you saw him last?"

"Two years ago," Alois shrugged, "I did peek in on our way here. Our village is half a day's ride from here."

Aramis nodded, tried not to dwell on the longing he could he hear in the man's voice. Deciding that the ankle was sprained and not broken he started wrapping it up and glanced at the two young men squabbling quietly over the paper stretched between them. Bazin pointed onto a spot on the map but Planchet shook his head and pulled the map closer. Bazin smacked him on the head and tugged at the corner that was in his grasp.

"Come up with anything useful to share with the rest of us?" Aramis asked.

"We were coming through the forest," Bazin looked up from the map, "they came at us from further in,"

Planchet tapped at the spot where the thick line of the road curved.

"It was near here," he said, "there were these rocks cropping to one side and the road bend narrowed our path, I was worried we would be visible from the road."

Tying up the bandage round Alois' leg Aramis whistled to get the attention of the rest of the people at the camp. Picking up the map he pushed to his feet and mentally traced their path to where they had found Alois. The snare that the man had been tangled in had been his first clue, the forest was too close to the border and in time of war there was very little chance of people coming this close to the battle to catch game for food.

"Devereux and Kitty, I need you to search this area," he circled the spot with his finger.

"What're we looking for?"

"Snares,"

"And you want us to go lumbering into traps like this one?" Kitty asked.

"Find out where they are set up, see if there are hoove prints where they aren't," Aramis said.

"That would lead us to where the horses are coming from," Devereux nodded, "someone's protecting their hideout with traps. We find the route they're taking to avoid them."

"It'll be deeper in the forest, some place big enough to hide out men and animals," Aramis said.

"Looks like you'll have to cook without my help," Kitty grinned at Mousequeton.

The man muttered something unsavory under his breath that had the woman beaming. It was a disturbing sight. She patted him on the shoulder and turned to Devereux.

"Let's go hunt some soldiers." she said.

Aramis had a feeling she would leave a blood bath in her wake and stopped them before they could leave. Ordered them to simply gather information and avoid focusing any attention their way. Athos knew about theses Spanish soldiers too, he couldn't risk having them simply disappear after they had ambushed French scouts twice.

"And they will be patrolling the forest," he said, looked from Kitty to Devereux, "be careful."

If the two of them looked at him like he had grown an extra head Aramis ignored it.

* * *

He pulled the stumbling man along.

Groans and curses trailed after but Porthos didn't relinquish his hold. He dragged along the bleeding and bruised man, his own jaw clenched shut against the rising anger. Those idiots may have killed him if he hadn't intervened and Porthos knew how important it was to keep their prisoner alive for questioning. Knew they needed him to find out where his hideout was and take care of it if there was even to be a remote chance of General Armand's men joining them for the battle tomorrow.

And they needed those men.

He pushed away the flap of Athos' tent and marching inside he shoved their prisoner forwards towards the Captain. Blue eyes looked blandly from one man to the other as the Captain remained seated even though d'Artagnan stood up from his chair in surprise.

"Couldn't let them finish 'im off," Porthos said, "It's a pleasure I'd like to claim."

Athos raised a brow before shrugging a shoulder.

"Fair enough," he said.

Set aside the letter he had been writing and stood up, left his chair to round the narrow desk and grabbing their prisoner by the collar he pointed to the map on the table.

"Where were you hiding?" he asked.

The man reared back, a sneer baring his teeth before he reared his head and spat at Athos.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan hauled the man back.

But Porthos pulled the chair d'Artagnan had abandoned and shoved their prisoner in it. He was rewarded with loud Spanish thrown his way and he had come to know enough of it from Aramis' mutterings to pick out the insults. Pulling out his belt he tied the man's legs to the seat, tugging harder than necessary as bright brown eyes and a mischievous grin flashed before his eyes.

" _I bet he's going to say, 'I have no idea what you're talking about'. And then we'll have to hurt him."_

" _At which point, he'll suddenly remember he killed him."_

" _Why wait? Let's just hurt him now."_

Porthos straightened and stepped back. He could not go there; he refused the touch the memories that throbbed like a splinter in his skin. He dragged the chair closer to the table and pulled out his pistol, aimed it at the man's head and nodded towards the map; his lips tilting up in a vicious smile.

"Where are your comrades hiding," he asked.

The prisoner glared back.

Porthos cocked the pistol and grinned.

"You know I'm a pretty decent shot at this if I say so myself."

"He's just being modest," said d'Artagnan.

Porthos glanced at him, caught the gleam in the dark eyes that spoke of a mirth he hadn't realized he had missed in the past weeks. He turned his attention back to their prisoner and shrugged.

"At this distance it's just a matter of which vital organ do I choose to hit first, the heart?"

"Too swift," d'Artagnan shook his head.

A smile playing at his lips.

"The liver perhaps?" Porthos asked.

"Or a stomach shot," d'Artagnan offered.

Porthos nodded.

"Oh I like that, death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first,"

He smirked at the man who was staring wide eyed from one man to the other. His previous indignation and resistance forgotten as Porthos took a step closer to the man. Their prisoner shook his head vehemently and Porthos pulled the trigger.

The man jumped.

Athos stilled.

"Bang," Porthos whispered.

" _Oh I forgot the ball,"_

And the too innocent to be true expression on his old friend's face flitted through his mind and Porthos felt something crack in him. The shards cutting into his lungs as a laugh bubbled past his lips. It rang through the silent tent of the Captain and out into the camp. Distantly he was aware that d'Artagnan was laughing too, vaguely he noted Athos knocking out their prisoner. Porthos still laughed, remembered every moment spent with the man who had turned them away, turned him away and he could only laugh harder. There was a hand on his back and he was aware that Athos was saying something but he couldn't make out the words. His breath wheezed and he was being led out to another tent and pushed to sit on a hard chair.

"Porthos?"

" 'm fine," he pressed his finger and thumb into his eyes, picked off the moisture there even as a chuckle escaped him.

He would show that traitor, he would show him that he could live, that he could laugh, that he could move on without him. He didn't need that man leaning against him in shared schemes, didn't need the man grinning from across him at dinner, didn't need him at his back in a fight, didn't need him with a damned pumpkin on his head goading Porthos to shoot it.

"Here drink this,"

A flask of wine was pressed into his hands and he took a swig without thinking. It did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

" _The way I look at it, you saved her life, so she's probably grateful."_

" _But we did put her in danger in the first place, so she might want to see us whipped."_

" _I hadn't thought of that. You've upset me now."_

He would have gladly taken the whipping if he had known where the reward would leave them. Would have knocked some sense into his friend if he had any inclination that his fears of his friend chasing lofty targets was coming true, would have ripped that pendant from his neck if he had known what it would bring.

"He was a secretive reckless idiot," Porthos shook his head, "but never imagined him to be a coward,"

Athos took the flask form him but didn't take a drink. He screwed the top shut and placed it back inside his doublet, blue eyes staring into empty space. He shook his head and his gaze flicked to meet Porthos'.

"Courage comes in many shapes brother," he said.

"None of them involves running away," he snapped.

Athos sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Porthos caught sight of the dried blood making his friend's sleeve stick to his arm and gave the man a pointed a look. The Captain followed his line of sight and shrugged.

"It's a scratch,"

"It needs to be stitched,"

Athos nodded but made no move to get the wound seen to. It was the way he was avoiding looking at Porthos in the face that gave away the man's thoughts, showed just how much he missed the man not among them, how much he relied on him for deeds that he presumed would display his weakness that he could not trust a stranger with. With a growl the larger Musketeer pushed to his feet and grabbed his friend by the shoulder.

"He left us Athos, he chose to stay away," he gave the man a shake; "you need to get that stitched. You need to take care of yourself and live. You –" he shook his head, "we don't need him."

A shot rang out.

They hurried out into the camp to find the Musketeers gathering a few yards away from the Captain's tent. They parted at the sight of the man in charge and Porthos muttered a curse at the sight of their prisoner lying dead on the ground. D'Artagnan looked to Athos, there was a new bruise forming at the side of his face.

"He escaped," he said, "I was standing guard outside and he pounced."

Without a word Athos turned away but Porthos could tell the loss of their only chance to secure help for tomorrow's battle had shaken his friend. He followed the man back to his tent and nearly ran into him when the Captain stopped abruptly before his desk. There on the map was a dagger, stuck point first through the insignia that had been on the Spanish soldier's uniform. As the Captain pulled out the weapon the circle on the map under it became visible.

Porthos grinned.

"He caved, he was deserting,"

"Get me Alain," Athos told d'Artagnan.

* * *

He was exhausted.

When Kitty and Devereux had returned with the information about the Spanish hideout in a cave they hadn't known to exist in the forest, he had to tamp down the desire to go in after them on his own. Instead he had to find a way to pass the information on to Athos.

So he had waited.

Stayed at the border of the French camp, trekking the perimeter near the tree line like any other soldier on patrol. It scared him how easily he could hide in plain sight with just the right shades of clothes and a simple shift in posture. He had been a few feet away from the Captain's tent when he had seen Porthos drag the prisoner in there. The sound of his friend's laughter echoing out later had left him with an odd mixture relief and loss, the expanse between his ribs feeling hollow and heavy at the same time. But then Athos and d'Artagnan had stumbled out with Porthos between them and Aramis had taken the chance to slip inside before the Captain of the Musketeers had ordered his young friend to stand guard.

The prisoner had been unconscious in a chair and Aramis had taken the chance to tear off the insignia from his uniform and mark the position of the hideout on Athos' map. He had slapped awake the Spanish solider and set him free. The man had thanked him, had called him a friend and Aramis had said nothing as he had sent him out to be bait and be presumed a deserter in his death.

He stumbled and caught his balance against as tree.

" 'r you hurt?" Bazin asked.

Aramis shook his head.

He closed his eyes and swallowed back the disgust at himself. At least the threat was over for now; with Bazin and Planchet at his side he had kept an eye on the group Athos had sent out. They had only begun their trek back to their camp once the French soldiers had returned victorious. Aramis forced his back to straighten and moved on, this was the path he had chosen and he would walk it till he could not. The sight of their small campfire in the dark beckoned them closer and the two younger men bounded on ahead to get dinner. Aramis took the offered wine but refused the stew.

Its warmth was enticing but the sick feeling in his gut had yet to abate. Taking a mouthful from the bottle in his grasp he plopped down near the fire, pulling up a knee as the dancing flames reminded of him of the many nights spent in the open but in a different company, nights warmed by brotherhood and camaraderie even when wet firewood wouldn't take the spark.

Aramis pulled out the letter he had to send to the Minister and gave it to Alois.

"There's a village half a day's ride from here; find a messenger there to send to Du Arbres. Tell them to deliver this to a Madame Pascal of Les Routes Perdues," he said.

The injured man nodded silently, something almost like gratitude flashing in his eyes.

"Yes Captain," he said.

Aramis hadn't the strength to correct him and took another mouthful of the wine.

"There are three of them," Kitty spoke up.

Aramis raised a brow. The woman shrugged a shoulder, leaned forward and plucked the bottle from his hand. She took a swig and sitting back tapped the bottle against her heel. Her smile was cold.

"The three you always seek out," she said.

His heart thumped in his chest as he became aware of all eyes that were settled on them. Kitty's grin was feral, she had found the bit she'd been looking for and was clearly not ready to let it go.

"The Captain, the tall one and the young one," she went on, "they're the first you look for whenever we shadow this regiment."

He said nothing. Waited instead for a proper question lest he gave away something that wasn't even asked. The woman took another sip from the bottle and cocked her head to the side; eyes glittering in the firelight.

"It's like you're keeping an eye on them,"

Aramis shrugged and turned his gaze back to the fire, not ready yet to deny or confirm the accusation.

"Why?" it was Bazin who asked.

He glanced at the younger man and then at the curious gazes that were studying him. His mind went back to the day's events, of the mistrust he had witnessed among these people and the information Alois had shared with him.

" _I've thought of you many times... wondered how you were living."_

" _Precariously. A musket for hire with thieves for company and one eye on the door,"_

His old friend had been where he was and he wondered if the two Savoy had let live had been cursed for surviving it, to slowly lose sight of all that they were before the inevitable shot came to claim their lives. To wander the earth as a shell of their former selves until someone put them out of their misery. The smirk tasted bitter on his lips as Aramis pushed a hand through his hair and shrugged again. He picked the simplest explanation he could.

"I owe them,"

"Really?" Planchet frowned, "what'd they give you in return?"

" _All for one and one for all,"_

Aramis stared into the fire; his eyes stinging in a way that had nothing to do with the heat and the brightness.

"Something invaluable," he said.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Hmmm this was short...**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. Those who leave me your thoughts I want you to know they are cherished and dotted upon. Thank you guest reviewers, Beeblegirl, Clara and Sal.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Seventeen months into the war…**_

The scents lingered, wrapped around him like the many wiling arms that had reached for him in the dimly lit chambers. The night air was heavy and warm sticking to his face like a wet cloth, one that had the stink of fish oil. Tying up the strings of his shirt he walked down the wooden steps and away from the house. Aramis looked up and stopped. Blue eyes looked from him to the building behind him, before a thin brow rose in contempt.

"And that's what you've been doing all day?"

He shrugged, pushed a hand through his hair in an effort to tame them.

"You've been in a brothel while I had been playing friends with the peddlers?"

"I didn't take you to be the jealous sort Kitty,"

"You can but dream Monsieur,"

She fell in step with him as they walked down the narrow street that was lit with the light of the waning moon peeking out from behind the clouds. He didn't question her as to why she hadn't gone straight to the point of meeting they had decided earlier, why she was apparently following him. Aramis could feel the cold hostility in the woman at his side; she had never really liked him ever since he had turned down her first attempt to gain favor, or the ones after that. But then he was not here to make friends he reminded himself, neither of them was and he especially didn't believe himself capable of that anymore.

As the tavern came into view Aramis turned to the woman.

"We'll meet at the docks," he said.

"And why can't I have a drink?"

"Because you're a distant noble who had fallen on hard times and is visiting a cousin here,"

"That's what you said when you sent me to loiter in the market and that's what you said when you ordered me into this dress," she hissed at him.

"And you look lovely in it," he smirked.

Although it was not a lie, the simple pale pink dress with a high collar was a startlingly fine-looking change in the way the young woman normally dressed. He blinked and found her standing nose to nose with him and Aramis felt the tip of the dagger pressing against his middle. Her blue eyes narrowed as he found himself smiling at the situation.

"You find this amusing?"

"Intriguing actually," he made no move to step back or push her away, "you're willing to use your charms to get what you want yet you take an issue whenever someone alludes to your womanly grace and duties."

He had been paying attention even if the rest of the men seemed to assume she simply didn't know how to cook or to sew or have any other talent that they deemed to be a woman's; but Aramis hadn't missed her violent hostility, cheerful though it had been whenever she had been confronted with such duties.

Kitty stared, eyes wide in surprise.

Aramis brushed back the fringes of her hair from her forehead.

She flinched and he stepped back.

"I'll meet you at the docks," he said.

And tried not to note how she reminded him of the woman his mother had found crying in an alley once, there was no face in his memory just the shrieks as his mother had approached her and the long bruises on her arms that his mother had rubbed salve on later. It would be years before he would understand what he had witnessed, would know what it was the aftermath of.

Dodging the men stumbling out he walked into the tavern that was aglow from the blazing hearth and the few scattered candles. Aramis had a feeling he would have to gulp the air to breathe in there, the settlement near the coast already had a dampness in the air and the recent torrents of sporadic summer rain hadn't helped. Taking the only place available at a long table in the middle he ordered a bottle of wine, eyes travelling over the crowd that was getting loud as it got drunk. He had just raised his glass to his lips when someone settled at his side.

"How did you know?" the man grunted.

Aramis smiled into his glass as he drained it. Setting it down he slid the bottle towards the dark skinned man now beside him.

"Intuition, luck, calculation?" he offered with a shrug, "I wanted to meet you here and I did."

"Here's your letter," Devereux set it on the table as he proceeded to drink straight from the bottle.

Aramis had sent him to Les Routes Perdues to check if the Minister had sent out a correspondence days before he and Kitty had set out in the deluge to reach this town. The rains had stopped the battle at the front and Aramis had taken the time to spy the enemy camp. This port town north of the border had been a part of hushed conversations which led him here and he had a feeling that his man would stop here on the way back, had worked out the day it would be most likely and fortunately he had chosen the tavern Devereux would.

"What's the hurry to meet me here anyway?"

Aramis pocketed the letter and stood up; with a hand on the man's shoulder he signaled him to follow and stepped out into the night. They made their way to the docks, down to the shore and away from the whaling stations scattered on the coast to where Kitty was waiting with two horses. She looked from one man to the other, displeasure tightening at the corners of her mouth.

"You could have told me," she said.

"I wasn't sure it would work," he shrugged, transferred the Minister's letter to his saddlebag and turned to Devereux, "now did you notice anything unusual on your way here?"

"A lot of flooding," the man said, "and warnings to not go further south from here; something about bandits having moved in on the roads that way."

"The baker thinks they're stupid to waste their time since not many are going that way due to the war," Kitty added, "but the girl selling whale meat was sure it was smart since people in villages close to the battle grounds would have to cross those roads coming here,"

"They're clearing a path," Aramis said, "I heard the Spanish soldiers talking about waiting for something from this town, and this evening a lady who happened to be the favorite of the harbourmaster told me the man seemed to have gained a fortune in these past days."

If what he feared was true Aramis knew there was no time left to warn the Minister and thereby the regiments deployed closest to this town; one of those regiments that his brothers served in.

"The Spanish are coming here," Kitty glanced at the rolling water, "they've bribed the harbourmaster to dock here."

"If they're ashore sooner than we can warn the Minister –" Devereux cast a grim glance towards Aramis.

"Then our soldiers will be pinned between two armies," Aramis nodded, "we have to find a way to stop them at sea."

"Oh let me just send the word to the Captain of our armada then," Kitty's voice was as dry as a bone left on a sunny rooftop.

Standing in the deep shadows of the whale watchtower built on the headland Aramis was keenly aware of the lack of a ship let alone an armada at their disposal. He could only hope that it was one Spanish ship coming to this harbor and found himself staring at the bobbing shapes in the distance. As the beam of the lighthouse in the distance flashed over water his mind raced landwards and he realized there had to be an agent or a spy in this town to arrange for the docking.

Not for the first time, he missed the brothers he could rely on.

"There's something else you should know Rene," Devereux broke through his thoughts, "it didn't seem that odd at the time but with the road infested by bandits beyond here we might have another problem."

"Why wouldn't we," Aramis said.

Pulled his eyes and thoughts back to the people before him.

Tamped down the ache of loneliness that threatened to break his tired control.

"There's a food caravan heading for the regiments at the border," Devereux said, "If the weather holds, it would likely pass here tomorrow."

Aramis rubbed the back of his neck and breathed in the smell of whale oil that was thicker on the shore, forced his mind to work and pulled at his thoughts until the one he had tied in a knot to reach for later was finally tugged forwards. It was something the girls in the foyer had been giggling over.

"There's a man staying at the Inn across the tavern we were at," he looked up at Devereux, "thick dark hair and deep black eyes the girls had said and he talked differently. I'm guessing he's the Spanish spy here. Find him, if my assumption fits get him to talk. You can use the house Kitty secured for us."

Devereux's eyes were alight with curiosity and brows raised in surprise.

"I spent the day gathering information," Aramis said.

"So you were whoring yourself out when I assumed it was the other way round," Kitty smirked.

Aramis refused to take the bait; he had other matters that needed attention.

"Kitty and I will go out tonight and clear the way for the food supply," he said.

* * *

He checked his weapons one last time before heading out to his horse.

The soggy earth sank under the weight of each step he took as the fading moon dared to peek out from behind the clouds that had drenched them all through the evening. Porthos had to wonder what they had done to anger the lady luck as the wet leaves assaulted him with sporadic drops of water. He saddled his horse and checked the girth and ignored the presence he felt nearing.

"Jean will be going with you," Athos said.

"One rider would be faster,"

"Two would be safer,"

He turned around to find their Captain watching him, one hand on the hilt of his sword at his side and a dull look in his eyes that had Porthos almost wishing for the wine induced daze that hadn't been in those eyes for ages now. Because that was a luxury the Captain couldn't have, he needed to be alert, attentive and thorough although the two of them had always said that neither of those abilities in Athos was ever compromised no matter the size of the tavern that he had drunk dry.

Porthos shook his head, clenched his jaw shut and berated himself for going there, to the thought of that man. Hating how such normal observations led him back to the point from which he had moved on.

"The rains might hold for the night," Athos said, "and if they do..."

He looked at the flashing lights of campfires on the hill across from their camp where the enemy awaited. But waited for what they couldn't decide. It had left them with many a sleepless nights even when they were not on watch. Athos had sent out scouts but none had returned until they had to accept that their scouts were shot dead somewhere at a distance too far from them and too close to the Spanish. Athos had concluded that it was the rain; that their enemy like them was reluctant to take the extra risk and meet in battle even if their adversary had a better position. Porthos pulled his eyes back to his friend, his ire at being sent on this assignment rising again.

"They'd attack if the rains stop," he said, "then I should be here."

Athos shook his head.

"You need to meet the caravan waiting for you at that whaling town and bring us our supplies."

"Any soldier could show them the way here I –"

"We need that food Porthos," Athos' voice was soft, "I can't risk it getting lost."

And suddenly his friend appeared every bit tired as Porthos felt himself. He glanced back at the figures hunched close over sputtering fires, their faces drawn from fatigue and the constant threat of an attack that Porthos wished would just happen already. His eyes softened as d'Artagnan walked up to them, the energy of youth though taxed was still there in his movements but there was growing a steadiness in their youngest that hadn't been there before.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan grasped his shoulder, "bring us back some coffee,"

"Can't forget that," he nodded.

Reached out to hold onto both of his brothers, wishing again as he did before every battle that this was not the last time he would see them. Athos and d'Artagnan completed the circle and for a moment they stood linked, drawing strength from each other, soothing fears in a way that only a friendship like theirs could.

"Stay safe," d'Artagnan said.

"Both of you," Porthos nodded.

"All of us," Athos corrected.

With one last quick pressure of his grasp Porthos stepped back. He mounted his ride as Jean trotted over in his own and they turned the horses towards the road. With a wave at his brothers Porthos kicked his ride into a gallop, intent on using every bit of moonlight and the short dry spell at their disposal. He needed to gain as much as distance as they could in the cover of the night and return as soon as possible.

It was nearing dawn when they stopped. Porthos and Jean led their horses down to the river for a drink. It was a short trip down the slope to the riverbanks, the rushing waters having swollen with the rains and the melting snow of spring. After that their progress slowed, the muddy road sloshing under horse hooves as the red streaked sky gave way to blue.

The shot came out of nowhere.

The harsh snap in the air had Jean crumpling to the ground even as his horse reared in surprise and fright. Porthos had his pistol out as he dismounted, his eyes darting at the trees growing at the side of the road where the shot had come from. Taking cover behind one of the animals he waited for the next shot.

The man ramming into him from his side took him completely by surprise. As the pistol flew out of his grasp Porthos dug his heels in and with an angry snarl he shoved the assailant off of him. His fist connected hard with a jaw and Porthos kicked the man in the stomach landing him in a muddy heap. With a hand on his sword still at his side, Porthos swaggered up to the gasping man.

"Like we don't have enough fighting to do at the borders eh?" Porthos glared at him.

His attacker smirked, pulled out a pistol from the fold of his shirt and fired.

He dove to the side on instinct, reading the movement almost too late and Porthos hissed as he felt the metal ball cleave a path low through his side. Pressing a hand to the burning trail in his flesh he used the other to stay up onto his knees. The kick to his gut stole what little air was left in his lungs. He gasped as he fell on his back, his exhale sticking to his throat at the unexpected cold splash as water closed over him like a curtain.

He pushed his head up, his instincts screaming at him to get up as cold water lapped at his side and rushed over his body.

Porthos forced himself to roll onto his side and pull his knees under him, blinked up at the bleary form of his attacker before a foot to his shoulder had him falling back again. This time the water was deeper, stronger. It roared over him in a rush and pulled him along like the reins of a panicking horse wrapped around his ankle.

Kicking and sputtering Porthos broke the surface even as the river dragged him away from the land and he found himself fighting a monster that was for once too powerful than him. He dipped under water even as he struggled to remain afloat and came up thrashing, coughing and gagging as the water burned in his nose. He blinked and thought he had heard a pistol shot but the river was a raging storm unto itself, hammering away at the stubborn rocks in its paths.

Porthos' eyes widened as two boulders appeared too close out of nowhere.

Pain lanced through his head as it bounced off the smooth hard surface and the world was silenced.

* * *

They had been travelling all night on foot; tracking the bandits in the drenched thicket that bordered the river as the sky above lightened to morning. So far they had only encountered three armed men demanding their belongings and that was now three less men in the world. Aramis looked up from the boot prints when the young woman at his side huffed in annoyance. She tucked the pouch of her gunpowder back in her belt and followed that with her pistol before meeting his questioning eyes.

"Why can't we just poison the enemy camp and be done with it?" she asked and shrugged a shoulder, "it'll be easier, cleaner and there'll be less loss of our men,"

"Because wars are won by soldiers not assassins," he said.

Adjusted the strap of the musket at his back and moved towards the bent shrubbery ahead. There was more than half a stretch of road left for them to clean out and the Spanish ship was sailing nearer to the French shore even as they spoke. He had no time to neither lament nor explain the fact that they worked with no banner at their backs and no flag to shade their actions.

The sound of pistol shot quickened his steps.

Aramis hurried through the damp undergrowth even as he brought his musket to the front, hands preparing the weapon as his eyes scanned for threat. He found it on the other side of the road, standing by the river bank. Digging the toes of his boots in the soft earth he came to a stop and brought the musket to bear, the stock smooth under his palm and the butt hard against his shoulder.

The horses on the road were soldiers' he could tell; their weary bodies and calm presence a testament of the time spent on the frontlines.

"He's one of the last three we met," Kitty said from his side.

Aramis nodded.

And fired.

His eyes drawn to something else even as the man fell. There in the river a head had bobbed up from the torrents and his heart stopped in his chest. It was Porthos; it was Porthos in the river. Aramis was moving before he registered the thought completely, rushing across the road heedless of any remaining threats as he shed his weapons, boots and shirt and wadded into the raging waters.

Porthos, Porthos, Porthos beat his heart in his ears as the river muffled all else.

He let the current take him, stinging eyes seeking the man who should be there in front of him. He broke through the surface and looked around. His jaw tightening in frustrated helplessness when he finally spotted the figure stuck between two boulders ahead, pinned and listless like a discarded puppet. Aramis was praying even before he reached him.

In a bone jarring slam he was suddenly beside his friend.

"Porthos," it was a wet whisper.

With a shaking hand Aramis reached out to cup the bearded chin and lifted it over the churning water, his mind not ready to accept that his brother had been inhaling the river until then. He would not accept it, he would not accept any fate where any of the men he called brothers would die before him.

Easing his friend from where he was wedged between the boulders Aramis shifted against the water beating into him, turned until he had an arm around Porthos' front, mindful of the dislocated shoulder that had been stuck in the gap between the rocks. Aramis turned until Porthos' back was pressed against the boulder and his own chest pressed against the rock. Somewhere there was a throbbing in his ribs that flared like a sputtering candle as he heaved his friend up and closer.

Porthos' head lolled against the boulder; coming to rest with his face turned towards Aramis.

Drenched curls sticking to a haggard face and eyes shut against the world.

Aramis' numbing hand flexed where it held the armour his friend wore, his breath hitching for reasons that had nothing to do with the water he had breathed in. It took everything in him to not change his position and check for a pulse then and there.

This was not how he had imagined meeting his friend again, if ever.

"Porthos," it was no louder than a breeze, "please don't do this,"

This was his nightmare.

This was what he was supposed to prevent.

This was a failure he would not be able to face.

Aramis could not look away from the slack face of his friend.

Something pinged off the rock he was clinging to. Aramis turned his head around, his jaw grazing the hard surface it was pressed against. His eyes found the woman at the riverbank and the smile on his face bloomed from his heart. There was still a chance, he could still save Porthos.

Kitty pointed to the rope and the two horses behind her.

Aramis couldn't hear her over the thundering river but he understood the message nonetheless. Turning his attention back to the man he held Aramis turned until his back was to the rock and Porthos much closer to him. Shifting his hold on his friend he pulled him closer still, blinking away the tears in his eyes when the big man fell limp against his chest. Porthos' head flopped onto Aramis' shoulder, heavy and listless. Aramis prayed that the breath he didn't feel against his neck was because of his own chilled skin.

"Work with me will you?" he murmured.

His words bubbling in the water as he slid down a bit, his legs feeling too heaving to move in the current that wouldn't let up. Still he kicked to remain afloat, not so much for himself but for the man he had followed into this. He sank, came up coughing, spitting and swallowing water. Thankful that his friend's face was still propped above the swirling surface.

"Let's get rid of this," Aramis forced his numbing fingers to move and un-strap the armour Porthos wore.

The gauntlets were easy but the metal pauldrons were a stubborn fit especially with the dislocated shoulder. The dents in the once shiny metal were a reminder of the heavy damage his friend had taken and even in the haste it stayed his movements to an almost gentle tug until finally he was rid of the shoulder pieces and could work to get the cuirass off.

The loss of weight was a relief and he let his head rest against rock behind him. His limbs feeling heavy and slow to take his command. With his eyes closed Aramis missed the rope end that hit him in the face; or rather it was the tangle of twigs and pebbles tied to the rope end to make the throw more accurate. The added heaviness had helped but he had missed grabbing it.

"I don't have all day and neither do you." Kitty yelled at him, "Grab the rope!"

She pulled the rope back and threw it again.

He caught the crackling sticks that scratched his face and wasted no time in wounding the rope around his wrist and up his arm. The tug was immediate. Aramis had just a few seconds to adjust his grip on Porthos before they were pulled away from their temporary safety spot. The rope tightening around his arm, burning against his skin as he was dragged one way while the water pushed to take him to another.

" –go, let – imgo – Rene!"

Aramis pursed his lips in an effort to keep from breathing in the water that slid over nearly half his face as he tried to keep Porthos' head above the surface. Blinking through the hair clinging to his face and dripping into his eyes he looped the little slack in the rope that was left around his wrist and glanced at the woman guiding the horses.

"Let him go Rene!" Kitty called out, "he'll drag you out with him!"

He had no breath to answer her and he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. And he held on that much tighter onto the rope and to his friend for the fear of losing either. While each pushed him in opposite directions, harsh and tenacious in their strengths and for minutes or an eternity he was suspended; stretched between the safety that he could easily reach on his own and a brother in danger who he refused to abandon.

Until the ground was suddenly under him.

His feet dug into the soft earth in the shallow water even as the horses dragged him further onto land. Aramis only let go of his friend when he was sure that the water will not snag him away again and forced himself up onto his hands and knees. Coughing and shivering he gave up the effort to untangle himself from the rope when his fingers wouldn't cooperate and turned to the man he had pulled out with him.

Distantly he was aware of the young woman snarling at him but his eyes remained on his brother, his thoughts in knots over his safety as he turned the big man onto his side and gave him a shake even as his gaze shifted from the dislocated shoulder to the slack face.

"Wake up," he rasped, "wake up, get up you stubborn idiot,"

He shook him again, hand clenching into a fist when Porthos remained still.

"Don't do this, don' –" he coughed, "don't do this,"

He shook his friend, thumping him on the back with a wet growl when the man remained unconscious. Obscenities and prayers flowed past his lips as he thumped his friend's back again and Porthos coughed suddenly. The relief knocked him back onto his rear and Aramis stared as his brother coughed and shuddered, an alarming amount of water pouring from his mouth.

"That's right, that's good," he murmured.

The numbing cold settling like a silk drape over him dulled his senses and threatened to force his eyes to slip shut. The world swayed and he sat up straighter, hauling it back on an even keel. Aramis leaned forwards when he noticed Porthos having stilled again and his eyes settled on the fact that water was not the only thing that gleamed on his friend's face; there was blood.

Taking heart at the sound of his friend's breathing, harsh but there, he brushed back the curls sticking to Porthos' forehead; fingertips lightly tracing the cut to the side of it that was still bleeding sluggishly. He needed to stitch this and the shoulder, he mustn't forget the shoulder or the ribs there must be some damage to those and yes there was what looked like a graze from a pistol shot.

" – reckless, thoughtless, of all the stupid maneuvers –"

"Need to set his shoulder," Aramis turned to the woman.

Her mouth opened mid-rant but no words came forth, she blinked at him with an expression that questioned his sanity. He would have laughed if he had the strength to spare; as it were he simply pushed himself to his feet. The earth rolled under him and he lurched sideways, only for a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He glanced at the woman at his side, surprised at her move. Kitty pulled back with a grimace once he was steady and stooped to pick up his shirt, wiped her muddy hand on it and tossed it to his face.

"There, now that matches the state you're in," she said.

He spared a glance at the streaks of dirt clinging to him before shrugging into his shirt, finding it surprisingly warm on his damp skin. His head felt heavy, his ears popping as he bent to roll his friend onto his back and positioned himself to set the dislocated shoulder. His worry spiked when Porthos didn't even flinch when his bones were pushed back into place.

"He needs medical attention," Kitty said from behind him, "and we don't know if it's safe here,"

Aramis nodded even as he shifted Porthos onto his side again. He looked back at the woman who held the reins of the two horses and it dawned on him suddenly that there must be another soldier around.

"He's dead; clean shot through the head," said the woman, her eyes never leaving Aramis' "he was not one of your favorites,"

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. You people are awesome for taking the time to do so!**


	5. Chapter 5

Someone was cursing, a voice rough and broken.

Begging and demanding; a voice he knew.

Porthos sucked in a breath and felt it gush out of him in a burning stream; he gagged. Tried to breathe in again only to feel more water rush out of the path where air should flow. It was pouring out of his throat and down his nose that felt as if it was touched by a hot poker. And he remembered the river, the fall, the water burying him. This he realized was his end.

A cough tore from his throat and his chest heaved, rib screaming in protest. And there was a voice around him still, soothing even with the rasp, safe even though it cracked. Porthos knew that voice but he also knew it couldn't be where he was, it wasn't real. Yet it was a bittersweet thing to hear it again even if it was conjured by his fading mind. That in death he still desired to hear one more time the voice of the brother who had abandoned them.

" _Five, four, three, two, one!"_

 _A shot from a pistol, chunks of yellow, a bright grin._

" _How about we try it blindfolded?"_

His head hurt.

His vision was blurry.

Porthos blinked, lifted a heavy hand to clear the grit in his eyes and nearly punched himself in the face as the groggy limb responded to his orders. Letting his arm fall back onto his side he rolled his head on the hard surface he laid on. It took him minutes to understand that he was in a room, his bleary surroundings wavering until he closed his eyes again.

He snapped them open in the next breath.

He was alive.

The realization pushed him to sit up and a groan escaped him when his body protested. Pain throbbed in his shoulder and pierced in his side, there was a hammer inside his head that was beating in tandem with his heart. Bile churned in his stomach as if to rival the river he had been in. Porthos swung his legs off the table he had been lying on and stood, his knees folding under his weight in an instance. He crumpled to the floor, hitting the floor in a heap.

"Hey! What're you –"

He looked up at the woman's voice and tried to decipher her features they seemed to whirl into a blur. There was a shadow looming over her shoulder, a large figure that had a pistol out. It was the weapon that cut through the fog in Porthos' swimming view.

"Is he up?" asked a man.

"An overestimation of his condition I would say," the woman replied.

Pushing up on his hands and knees Porthos shook his head, biting back the groan at the sickening pain it caused him and forced his eyes open. Searched for a weapon, anything he could use for his defense. He would not let these people capture him this easily, he needed to get out. Get the food back to his brothers; Athos and d'Artagnan were waiting for him.

His scrabbling fingers curled around the neck of a bottle and he tightened his grip on it. Smashed it against the floor and lurched to his feet in one motion. Black spots danced before is eyes, his hazy view threatening to give into oblivion even as he waved the jagged end of the bottle in a menacing arch at his captors.

He could see sunlight behind the people who had taken him and his tired mind assured of an escape through a door or a window urged him that way. Growling at the two before him he stumbled towards the opening, relieved when the man and the woman simply stepped aside. He cringed at the brightness streaming in through the open door that bobbed closer to him with each staggering step. Somewhere under the loud buzz in his ears he could make out the sound of people talking, the squeak of a wheel and children laughing.

The grey around the edges of his bleary view darkened and expanded and a figure appeared through the open doorway. It cut out the light, his way to escape, arms reaching out to grab him and Porthos vowed to himself that he would not go down without a fight. As the hands clasped him by the shoulders he pulled at his receding strength and stabbed the figure with the broken end of the bottle.

* * *

His eyes widened.

A curse fell from his lips as Porthos' legs folded and he fell forwards in his arms. Head thumping onto his shoulder as they both dropped to the floor, knees hitting the floor hard. Aramis clasped onto the limp weight leaning against him, one arm wrapped around Porthos' wide shoulders and a hand tangled in the dark curls at the back of his brother's head. The rolls of bandages and his sewing kit scattered about them where he had dropped his bag to catch the staggering man.

"See, I told you Rene would stop him," Kitty said.

Aramis looked up at the woman and Devereux who had followed Porthos. He motioned for the man to take Porthos back to the table he had left him on. Disoriented though Porthos was it heartened Aramis to see his friend up on his feet, he had been worried when the man hadn't so much as winced during the ride back to the village where they had reached in the last remnants of the afternoon.

Aramis gasped as Devereux leaned Porthos back, his friend's slack hand falling away from the bottle stabbed in his side that Aramis steadied with his eyes clenched shut. He had completely forgotten about that.

"How bad?" Devereux asked.

"Not much," he breathed out.

Thankful that Porthos had not had his full strength at his disposal. It had likely saved him the damage to the organs beyond the muscle where the bottle had stabbed him in the side of his stomach.

As the other two dragged Porthos back to the table Aramis grit his teeth and grasped the neck of the bottle. With his other hand pressed around the jagged edges, blood seeping through his fingers as the glass wriggled in his flesh that refused to let it go. Aramis pulled and the glass broke, the pieces remaining where they were under his skin as he threw away the rest of the bottle. With a blood stained hand he reached for a roll of bandages and pressed it in place; tying it off as tight as he dared, forcing a groan to silence behind his clenched jaw as he curled forwards slightly.

With a hand pressed against the rapidly staining bandage he waited for his breathing to taper off into a rhythm. Swallowing thickly he looked up to find Devereux and Kitty staring at him.

"We need to clean his wounds," Aramis said.

Stood up gingerly before he straightened, a grimace flashing across his features.

"Is the water heated?" he asked the woman.

"Boiling,"

"Good, bring some over,"

They worked silently, Devereux cleaned the wounds while Aramis checked for broken bones that he may have missed before he took a needle and set to work on the torn flesh. Aware of the glances the man threw his way and the blatant stare of the woman who left the room only to get more hot water but never helped otherwise. But Aramis' thoughts were snagged by his wounded friend and they remained there, lamenting the new scars that he had found and promising to do a better job once his friend was back on his feet.

"Our guest upstairs had been awfully quiet," he said.

Devereux had brought the Spanish agent for questioning in the house Kitty had secured for her stay and Aramis was sure that he hadn't expected them to return as soon as they did, not that he would stop the man from some of the violent methods of questioning. Their need for information was of desperate sort.

"I shifted him to the cellar," Devereux said, "he was out cold."

"Isn't much use to us that way,"

"Won't be unconscious for long,"

"Will he talk?"

"He'll sing if you want," Devereux smirked.

Aramis glanced at the man, his brow raised before he looked back down at his work.

"I'm in enough pain as it is," he said.

Tied the last stitch to Porthos' side and eyed the row of neat thread looping through the skin at his temple. Getting up from the chair he had pulled next to the table he chose one of the thicker rolls of the bandage and motioned Devereux forwards.

"I'll hold him up; you wrap up his ribs,"

It happened when Devereux was more than halfway done with the binding. Porthos shifted slightly, a frown deepening on his face as pain greeted him into awareness. Aramis shifted back, his fingers pressed white were they propped up his friend and arms shaking under the sudden weight as he scooted off the table where he had climbed up behind the injured man.

For the first time the fear of the consequences of what he had done hit him. His shoulders hunched up, head dipping and he wondered if he just closed his eyes he could hide from the cost of his actions. His throat dried up as Porthos stiffened, the arm resting in a sling twitched and he took in a sharp breath. Aramis forgot to breathe, lips pursing in a thin line as he bit the inside of his cheek, wondering for the first time if Porthos had seen him, if he remembered seeing him.

What would he say? How will he explain himself?

"What?" Porthos whispered, "where –"

"Let's start with hello," Kitty stepped closer to the table, "and with how you're feeling,"

Porthos shifted against his grip and Aramis had to wrestle down the urge to sooth the pain when the man was literally in his hands. His heart pounded like a colt galloping at full speed.

"Like I've been riding in a river without a boat,"

It was ridiculous how his eyes watered at hearing his brother's voice so near, to listen to his special flair with words and Aramis offered a silent prayer of thanks at finding the man's mental faculties intact. The head wound, the drowning and the unconsciousness that followed had left a cold fear in his heart.

"Explains why we had to fish you out," Kitty said.

She perched on the edge of the table and inclined her head towards Devereux who was tucking the end of the bandages to keep them secure. Her eyes never strayed to Aramis, instead they studied Porthos. Watching with interest as his head dipped slightly.

"You're a lucky man Monsieur," she said, "it seems you have someone watching over you,"

Porthos pulled his head up and Aramis nearly squeaked in fear that he would turn it to the side and catch him standing there from the corner of his eye. Part of him desperately wished he would while the rest balked at the mere thought of it.

"I stabbed you," Porthos said, "with a bottle,"

"Wasn't me," Kitty shook her head, "it was the man bringing in medical supplies,"

"Thought you've captured me, 'm a soldier,"

"That clarifies some things," Kitty nodded.

" 's he alright? Did I kill 'im,"

"He's alive,"

"Tell 'im I'm sorry,"

The knot in Aramis' throat grew spikes at those words. It was all he could do to keep the man steady and remain quiet. He was sure that his heart would beat right out of his chest. Porthos hadn't seen him though his bleary eyes had rested on him. Which was a good thing, for his mission, for his friends' safety for his own lack of explanations to offer. Aramis knew that even as he refrained from clearing his suddenly too tight throat and swallowed thickly, he had no idea why it still hurt as much as it did.

"I will, but you need to rest," Kitty said.

"I need to go –"

"You're in no condition to,"

"I need to reach Biarittiz, I –"

"But you're there already,"

"I am?"

"Yes, but rest for now, you're in no condition to go wandering in the town,"

She nodded to Devereux and the man began easing Porthos down. Aramis stepped back and let the man take his friend's weight. He stooped to collect a few vials of spirits and his sewing kit, keeping his face out of sight of the drooping dark eyes. Silently he shifted back and out of range, stopping only when he had crossed the door to the kitchen.

Bracing himself against the hearth he watched the water in the pot bubble. And let the damp heat tease out the tears that swam in his eyes, swallowed back the thorny lump in his throat again. Wiping a sleeve over his face Aramis reminded himself that the bonds he ached for were the ones he had severed himself. That he had no one to blame for the reasons that left him isolated even when one of his best friends, one of his brothers, was there in the next room. That the comfort he sought and was desperate to give was a right that he had given up.

With a slow exhale he made room for this new pain in the pit that was his heart and marked another notch on the gravestone he kept there for the man who was Aramis. And then he pulled away, opened his eyes and turned his attention back to the matters that he could do something for. He cleaned his hands with some of the hot water before scooping some more in a wooden bowl and moved to sit next to the wall, as close to the fireplace as he could manage in the warm evening. After wiping away the blood with the bandages not stained red he steeled himself for the next step. The first piece of glass was the easiest to extract; the tip was visible enough to allow a good grip to his fingers.

" _I heard you broke a window,"_

" _Better than my neck,"_

His head thumped against the wall at his back as his nails grazed the edge of the third piece, slick with blood and buried deep it gleamed in the light of the flames. When his hold slipped for the fifth time Aramis let it be and shifted to another one, pressed back against the wall as he secured a hold on the edge that was only just shallower than the one he had left alone and swallowed the groan as he slid it loose. It wasn't worse than the tiny pieces glittering in his flesh that he had pick out individually.

" _Next time try using the door alright?"_

His lips curled up but the smile was sad. Aramis pulled up his leg and extracted the slim blade from his boot. He dipped the top of it in the hot water at his side and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Aramis sucked in a breath and held it, using the tip of the dagger he slowly slid out the piece that he had left last in his flesh. As fresh blood oozed from the smattering of wounds he let go loud breath, let his head thump back against the wall.

"You don't want him to know you're watching them," it was an observation not a question.

Aramis opened his eyes to see Kitty standing over him and nodded slowly. He had shown it to them that much, there was no point in denying. He ignored the woman who sat down beside him and watched him with curiosity clear in her eyes as he proceeded to clean the wounds with spirits. The liquid blazed over the cuts and laid a path of fire in their depths and Aramis could not hold back a growl as he rubbed thoroughly over where the blood had dried up.

"That was a reckless move," she said.

He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge that she was right. Didn't dwell on that fact that he hadn't waited for a thought, he hadn't considered anything other than the fact that his brother was in danger, hadn't registered any other instinct but the need to protect, to save.

"You usually think before you act,"

Never where his loved ones were concerned but she didn't know that. Aramis felt amusement tilt up the corner of his lips at the thought and bit back a hiss as the woman suddenly doused his wounds with more spirits. She set the empty bottle down and raised a challenging brow.

" _God I love that in a woman,"_

" _What? Passion?"_

" _No. Violence."_

In another time, in another life if they had met for a short lived enjoyment he was sure they'd have gotten together perfectly, like fire and gunpowder; hot, bright and mutually consuming.

"Now that I have your attention," she said, "that was more than simply repaying a debt,"

"Depends on what is owed,"

"What do you owe him?"

"How is that your business?"

"It is because I need to know if one day you will turn on us if it means saving your precious three pets,"

He paused in scrubbing the wounds, the skin red from his ministrations even where there was no blood. Would he do that? Would he turn on the people he was trying to get to trust his decisions? Would he be willing to go that far to save his brothers?

"I cannot answer that until that day comes," he said.

Took out a clean needle from the small leather bag he kept them in and gave himself a mental pat on the back for keeping all his needles threaded. It was invaluable at the times when the edges of his vision grayed out from the pain. Smoothing out the thread, he measured how much was needed and cut it with his teeth. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman sit back, head tilted a little to the side as she studied his face.

"Why didn't you send me out to the horbourmaster?" she asked, "You suspected his involvement before we came to this town; why not send me to extract information?"

He paused before he could stick a needle in his flesh, looked up at the challenging blue eyes and decided he could use a momentary rest.

"It was a possibility," he tipped his head a bit in acknowledgement, "I chose a different route,"

"A longer one," Kitty said, "I had to seduce one man; you had to go through a number of women before you came to the right one,"

"It was a time well spent," he smirked.

Her unimpressed stare had him chuckling even if he shrugged a shoulder. Wondering how to explain his actions and how much to even say what he had assumed through his distinct loathness for touch unless she initiated and her perception of compliments as threats. Aramis continued his work, his fingers putting in stitches while his mind shaped the answer; he could very well end up with a hole between his eyes if the woman at his side was so inclined by what he said next.

"You've been robbed of something priceless and you've gained and grown it back again long before we've met, perhaps it's not completely the same as it was before but you have succeeded in getting what you had once lost," he looked up from the wound he had closed and found the blue eyes again, "I cannot – will not ask you to risk that again,"

She stared; face blank and slightly pale. Aramis dropped his gaze back to his work. His cleaning had opened the wounds to bleed afresh, the warm trails were pooling in the folds of his breeches and he frowned at the thought of getting the stains out. With a shake of his head Aramis let the silence reign and made to close the next wound.

Long fingers stayed his hand. He looked up and Kitty nodded, lips pursed into a thin line as she reached and took the needle from his blood slick fingers.

"I was never really good at stitching so this will leave scars, but I'm guessing these wounds will leave a mark anyway," she said.

* * *

His boots weighed him down, made his steps heavier, louder than they otherwise would be. His breeches felt stiff with the mud that was caked over his armour as well, staining it halfway to his chest.

At least the drawn out humid evening was finally succumbing to the night and the darkness was his friend; it was something that the war had explained to him. D'Artagnan trudged into his regiment's camp, body aching with exhaustion now that he was in the relative safety of his comrades and the pang of hunger stabbed at him. He had missed what passed as the morning meal.

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan there you are," Cornett appeared before him.

D'Artagnan squinted at the Musketeer in the stretching darkness.

"You were looking for me?" he asked.

"The Captain had been looking for you,"

"Oh,"

He rubbed a hand at the side of his head where a headache pulsed and grimaced. Now that he thought about it Athos might not take kindly to his experiment. It wasn't that he had planned it from the start, it was just that when he was patrolling the perimeter the idea struck him and when he was dismissed from the duty he decided to test it out.

"D'Artagnan?"

"What?"

"The Captain…?"

"Yes, I'm going to see him now,"

As he moved past the starting fires he hoped his hesitation didn't show in his footsteps, wished that the men would take his lack of haste as a result of exhaustion and tight rations of food. His mind went to Porthos and he calculated that he would have met with their food caravan by then, his stomach rumbled in appreciation at the thought. The stews had grown thinner and the coffee lighter in the past weeks and the pieces of bread seemed to have shrunken until they had disappeared two days ago.

The vision of their table at the garrison came to his mind, Serge hobbling up to add to its already loaded offerings as Athos sipped wine and Porthos playfully defended his plate from the man at his side. D'Artagnan stopped short, wondering when he had absorbed the silence of his brothers on the matter of their missing fourth and stopped saying the name out loud even in his own mind.

"d'Artagnan,"

He blinked at Athos. The Captain's voice was cold, anger freezing its edges. He looked around to realize he had stepped into his senior's tent and took the few steps that were needed to bring him close to the untidy desk glowing under a single lit lantern.

"Athos I –"

"What." He bit out, "Were you thinking?"

"I –"

"You don't report back after your watch duty. I don't find you at the afternoon meal. No one knows where you are. No one has seen you all day. What were you thinking d'Artagnan?" he stopped a step away from the younger man, "where the hell have you been?"

He could see the tight lines of worry around the man's eyes. Could see the fear in the Captain's furious gaze and he suddenly remember the day he had been angry at his father like only a boy could be and had hid out all day in the hollowed tree beyond their farm. When he had returned hungry and cooled down his papa had the same livid expression over this same depth of concern that he saw in the man before him.

"I didn't think this through," he said.

"Clearly,"

He winced, gaze dropping to the ground. Another wet night from years ago flashed before his eyes when this man had saved him from himself once again.

" _What did I tell you about thinking before you act?"_

" _I couldn't help it. I'm not like you."_

" _You are. More than you know."_

He wondered if Athos ever understood how much that short confession had meant to him, how much it had helped him to work through one of the most difficult duels of his life. Wondered if the man understood the weight his word had carried in assuring him that there was still a chance that he could make something of himself when his the last old life had gone up in flames at the hands of Labarge.

"Sorry," d'Artagnan said.

He didn't look up when he was shoved back slightly until he felt a chair at the back of his legs. The hand on his shoulder pushed him back and he landed on it with much less finesse than usual. Still the hard wood had never felt so comfortable. D'Artagnan settled against the stiff backrest and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Where have you been?"

He dared to look up since the words seemed calmer. Athos had his arms crossed before him as he leaned against the edge of his desk, the anger pushed back for the moment.

"During patrol I was wondering that if the Spanish attacked us like we are waiting for them to we won't be able to defend ourselves properly with our men half starved," he said, "so I thought we should take the fight to them,"

"With our men half starved," Athos reminded him.

"But not unawares," d'Artagnan shrugged, "you've said it yourself that this wait is odd, that the Spanish are planning something in this temporary seize fire."

Athos tipped his head to the side, his eyes shifting away from d'Artagnan's to stare past his head at the wall of the tent they were in. His posture was still relaxed, his face calm but the weight on his shoulders was hinted only by the shadows that lingered in his blue eyes.

"I did say that but our scouting efforts had been…unsatisfactory," he said.

"Yes, but before that you said that we had a good chance of victory in this battlefield if we could round the hill undetected and launch an attack from both sides,"

"We found no path to follow through on that,"

They had lost soldiers in its search already he knew that. It was one of the reasons he had gone ahead without seeking permission in the first place. He had a feeling Athos would never let him risk his life for something that had already been proved too dangerous and futile.

"But I found it,"

Athos stared.

A slow smile spread on d'Artagnan's face, pride stirring in his chest when Athos inclined his head slightly towards the maps on the table. Jumping up at the silent invitation to show him his findings d'Artagnan wasn't prepared for the way the earth suddenly spun around him. His brother's grip on his shoulder anchored him as he closed his eyes against the abrupt dizziness.

"Alright?" Athos asked.

"Yes," he dared not nod.

"Good, see if you can find the route you took on the map there," Athos said before he stepped back.

D'Artagnan turned to the mess on the desk as his Captain stepped out of the tent for a minute. Picking up the lantern he pulled out the map he needed from under the pile of parchments and traced the path he had taken during his scouting; spotting where he had found his breakthrough he circled it with his finger and looked back over his shoulder when Athos returned. He could only nod in thanks when the Captain handed him a bowl of hot thin broth.

It warmed him but not as much as the way his brother was watching him.

"Just tired," he answered the unasked question and tapped the point he had found for entry, "but it was worth it."

Athos glanced at the place he had pointed and looked back at him.

"It's an expanse, the trees stop growing here," Athos drew a finger over the edge of the darker area, "we'll be completely exposed going through this area,"

D'Artagnan set down the empty bowl, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned at his mentor. He waved a hand at his mud covered uniform before pointing to the map again.

"That was an expanse, with all the rain we've been having it's a wetland now," d'Artagnan said, "they wouldn't consider guarding it thoroughly even if they do come that way on the hill during their patrols; would probably consider it more of a natural barrier protecting them."

"And you tested how deep this wetland was," it was not a question.

Something in his tone told d'Artagnan not to answer in affirmative even though it was clear that he had. His eyes widened when the Captain dropped into the chair he had vacated. With his elbow resting on the edge of the desk and his fingers kneading his forehead Athos stared past the map into the flame encased in the lantern glass, his jaw twitching under his beard.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan's voice was low.

His mentor looked back at him and his pale face seemed older suddenly, the shadows under his eyes deeper in the light of the small flame at their disposal. Understanding brought with it a sense of guilt and the need to assure the brother who had let him glimpse what he would only allow two other souls to witness. Or maybe one other d'Artagnan thought.

"Athos I –"

"You could have died out there d'Artagnan and I wouldn't have even known where," Athos closed his eyes and shook his head, "and they'd have forced me to mark you as a deserter."

He hadn't thought of that, but hadn't the heart to admit it out loud. Not when he knew his friend was aware of his shortcoming. D'Artagnan crouched before the man he had sought to murder once and felt a smile touch his face at the thought of how far they had come from that point.

"I was wrong," he said, "and next time I'll try my best to think things through,"

"Don't promise what you know is against your nature. You're reckless,"

"I'm not the one prone to jumping on bombs,"

Athos flinched and d'Artagnan cursed himself. And then for the first time since their quartet had been cut down he hated the one who had left them. Hated the man for leaving such a deep gaping hole in their lives that it just would not fill up, that it would appear out of nowhere under their feet when they would least expect it. Hated him for the fear of impending loss he witnessed now in one of the bravest men he knew.

With a shake of his head he reached out and grasped Athos' arm. Surprise flashed in blue eyes but d'Artagnan held on.

"I will try to think things through next time Athos," he said, "tonight we take the path I've found and use the plan you had and by the time Porthos returns we'll be victorious on this field. And I'll do my best not to get killed in the process just like you'll promise me and Porthos will have to promise too."

A smile touched Athos' eyes though his face remained grim.

"And you have my word Athos," d'Artagnan's fingers dug into his friend's arm, holding tight in an effort to somehow convey his fervor, "I will not abandon you like he did."

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. Thank you those who leave me reviews, they are a great motivation to write ahead, the best motivation actually :) And Thank You guest reviewer Jmp for leaving me your thoughts on the previous chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning: Violence, mentions of slavery and a bit of gore ahead. **

* * *

The breeze up there was cooler, the world quiet.

He crossed his arms before him and leaned forward against the balustrade, the stitches at the side of his stomach pulled and the skin on his right wrist prickled where the rope had bit a little tighter. He hoped he hadn't made a mistake by trusting Kitty with Porthos' care or the three that he had left behind with that of Athos and d'Artagnan. As the wind ruffled his hair like a playful lover dark eyes scanned the rolling waves that were lit with the pale glow of the waning moon and the flashing beam from the lighthouse.

"Either speak what's on your mind or let it rest Devereux,"

He didn't have to glance aside to see the surprise on the man's face. Devereux shifted, his boots creating a soggy crunch on the scattered wet straw, that had escaped from the platform above, as he sidestepped the unconscious observer of the watchtower they were in. Aramis could feel his eyes burning holes in the side of his head.

"Why didn't you kill him?"

The Spanish agent his mind supplied, he hadn't missed the frown on Devereux's face when he had insisted to patch up their prisoner, the one Devereux had worked so hard towards convincing the man to talk. In his defense Aramis firmly believed that the pain of setting broken bones and a dislocated shoulder was not far from torture either.

"He told us what we wanted to know," Aramis said.

"He's useless to us now,"

"He is, but our part of the deal was that we'd let him live,"

"He will try to escape," Devereux said.

"And then we kill him,"

The snort was not encouraging. Aramis still didn't look the man's way, not ready to offer him reasons he couldn't understand himself. He knew his decision was delaying the inevitable, knew he was risking exposure of his own identity and Devereux's and he was taking a chance in that they would stop the man's expected escape. Yet he could not order his death simply because he could.

"You should've let me do it,"

"But that's not for you to decide," his tone held a finality to it.

He stood back from the railing, eyes narrowing as he peered over the water and settled far at the ship still ways off from the coast. It would probably take it over hours to make landfall, likely in the middle of the night Aramis guessed.

"There it is,"

Devereux came to stand at his side and followed his line of sight, leaning over the barrier as he squinted in the night.

"You can read the name from this distance?" he asked.

"No, but he didn't give us a name," Aramis smirked, "The 'Señora en el barco.'"

"The lady on the ship," Devereux muttered to himself.

And when next the beam from the lighthouse rolled over it the darker shadow of a woman's figure painted on the white sails became much more defined. It was identification clear and distinct for the harbourmaster the Spanish agent had bought. Devereux watched the galley for a few minutes before he turned to Aramis.

"It'll reach the docks in an hour, two at most," he said.

Aramis raised a brow; he hadn't expected the man to sound so certain.

"I know what I'm talking about,"

"So it seems," Aramis nodded and turned to look at the ship, "we need to slow it down,"

Devereux turned to him, an expectant look on his face that barely hid the mockery behind it. Aramis looked from him to back at the Spanish ship heading their way. As his eyes fell on the various boats and ships docked below a smirk flashed on his face. He walked past the man to the small box the observer kept in the watchtower and pulled out the flint. His companion frowned as he climbed up the ladder to the reach the bales of wet straw on the platform and pulling out a handful he doused it with a pinch of gunpowder from the pouch in his belt.

It caught the spark in a matter of seconds.

Carefully easing the burning straw into the rest of the pile he blew on it to let the flames grow. Satisfied that it would not go out Aramis hopped off the ladder and watched the thick smoke curl up even as the flames began to burn in earnest.

"How does that help us?"

"Flame and smoke here is a signal that a whale had been spotted in the water," he nodded towards the docks where activity was gaining speed, "and the hunters will be off to chase it,"

With so many ships leaving the harbor it would force the Spanish to slow down if not stop completely. Aramis just hoped that his gamble would pay off and in their need for a quiet sneaky entrance the enemy would not blow the whalers' ships out of the water.

"C'mon," he said.

Turned to the unconscious observer and dragged the man down a few steps until he was sure no errant flame from the platform would reach him. Then he was rushing down the wooden staircase with Devereux right behind him and a plan shaping up in his mind. He would need a boat.

Aramis hurried through the men on the beach as orders flew loud and sharp among the sailors and crews readied to take the waters. By the time he had reached the harbormaster there were already ships and boats pulling away from land.

"Look around you, who would be ready to give up a vessel at the moment?" the portly man demanded.

"Oh I don't know, I think I'll take the one you keep in your office here," Aramis stepped into the dimly lit room and towards the enclosure that the beautiful Maria had told him about this evening, "a long, slim one that is said to be the fastest in the land, the one you had bought only last week,"

"How dare you! This is preposterous, a theft I tell you! Robbery!"

"So is selling access to an enemy warship," Aramis rounded on him, eyes glinting in the glow of the lantern the harbourmaster held and teeth flashing in not a smile, "But then I'm a mercenary, I could choose to murder you for it if that's what you prefer?"

He let the silence hang about them, watched the man's face redden, his eyes flicking to the sword and pistols in Aramis' belt, his mouth opening and closing before clicking shut.

"Good," Aramis nodded.

He stepped through the door in the side of the office and found the rowboat he had been looking for, bobbing in the waves that rolled to meet the section of the shoreline partly enclosed by the harbourmaster's office and home. The portly official merely whimpered his protests as Aramis took his lantern, stepped in the boat and began casting off.

He looked up only when he realized that Devereux was watching him, the man hadn't said a word but he was still standing on the shore, making no move to come aboard.

"We're in a hurry if you remember,"

"I'm not coming,"

Aramis sat up straighter.

"Yes you are,"

"I'm not getting on a boat and I'm sure as hell not going aboard a galley,"

There was something beyond the words, in the slight tremor of his voice that told Aramis of a deeper problem. Slowly pieces started falling into place and he winced, wished he had brought Kitty with him.

"I plan to save as many lives as I can but if you don't come with me it may not be a number it could be," his voice was even although his heart ached.

He should have known, should have considered it, Devereux knew about the speed of the galley and he understood Spanish after all. He glanced back at the waters filled with vessels sailing off and prayed that the enemy would slow down, that they would not lose patience and simply clear a path for themselves. His hands didn't shake, his eyes didn't water but in that moment Aramis despised himself as he brought up his pistol and aimed at Devereux.

"Get in," he said.

"No,"

"I won't miss," he said, "you'll die where you stand or you'll face this fear,"

It took a minute that stretched into years but finally Devereux stepped into the boat. Aramis stowed back his weapon and throwing off the last tethering he took up the oars, silently assuring himself that rowing could not be that bad this time around as he fumbled to find the best grip for a second. The right position to sit in needed adjustment and the first few strokes of the paddles were a picture of dissonance. But then slowly as he pulled away from the land the rhythm settled; what he had learned years ago as a young soldier at La Rochelle came back to him in the smooth drag of the paddles.

"I could easily murder you here and throw you overboard," Devereux observed.

Dark eyes studying him in the glow of the lantern as the shoreline disappeared from Aramis' view.

"You wouldn't have come aboard if you hadn't wanted to," Aramis breathed out.

His shoulders ached and so did his chest; sweat beaded his hairline and rolled down his face, trickled down his back and chest. He had forgotten how difficult this was. Or maybe I'm just growing old he told himself, grit his teeth and ignored the man watching him as he glanced towards the galley at his back before turning to face the stern again and rowed with renewed haste.

He growled a curse when Devereux stood up suddenly.

"Get up," said the man.

"What?"

Devereux simply stepped closer to where Aramis sat, towering over him as he bent and grabbing the front of his shirt hauled the man up. Aramis had his pistol out and the muzzle pressed to the man's chest even as he was pulled up, if he were to die he would take his murderer with him. He nearly gasped in surprise when his companion pulled him around so that their places where switched.

Aramis watched Devereux as the man let him go and settled down to take the oars.

"You'll probably bleed out before we reach the galley," he said.

Aramis lowered his pistol and glanced down. What he had assumed to be sweat making his shirt cling was clearly not so, the stain growing from the side of his shirt was darker and reddish even in the little light that they had. Pressing a hand against the cluster of wounds under the bandage he grimaced at the idea of having to put in new stitches and took the place Devereux had abandoned.

"Care to share your plan?" the man rowing asked him.

"We enter through the portholes,"

"The ones where the cannons are,"

Aramis grinned, sharp and harsh.

"Exactly," he said, "we go up and free the people rowing this thing, then blow it up."

Devereux didn't miss a stroke; instead his eyes remained steady on Aramis' face.

"Why free the rowers?" he asked.

It had always been the plan to free those he could before he sank the ship; the smattering of marks on his skin from his Captain's fury at his insubordination when he had done the same in La Rochelle had faded over the years but the humiliation of the punishment still crawled down his spine at the thought of that time. And yet he hadn't regretted his actions even then and Aramis had to wonder if that was what had spurred Treville into a hurry to get him transferred to the man's regiment; wondered if he would have survived this long if Treville hadn't. He looked to the man echoing the same question that his Captain at the time had demanded.

He decided to give the same answer.

"It gives them a fighting chance to survive when this ship sinks,"

Devereux nodded slowly and glanced back over his shoulder. They were getting closer to the Spanish ship and Aramis reached for the lantern to snuff out the flame. For minutes there was only the sound of paddles in the water and the chatter of sailors carried from the various ships in the distance. The shadow of the Spanish galley crept over their boat and Devereux let go an oar to maneuver them to come along its portside.

"People will still die," Devereux's voice was low.

"I know,"

It was a given, a large number onboard this ship would die. Even with so many ships close by to rescue those in the waters the chances of survivors were slim. Aramis watched the galley as they drew alongside; it was a death toll of hundreds looming over him.

" _We are soldiers Captain; we follow our orders wherever they lead us. Even to death,"_

But this was not following orders, not like when he had blown up the ships in La Rochelle. This was his choice, his decision, his conscience that would take the weight of the lives lost and suddenly he was glad he had forgiven Captain Treville for his part in Savoy. With a shake of his head he pulled himself away from the burden that was settling over him and drew the daggers from his boots; the hilts snug his grip as he positioned to stab the smooth wooden surface to create a handhold.

"You can scale that?" Devereux asked.

Aramis merely snorted lightly as he reached up and stabbed the hull, the wounds in his side pulling again.

"So we free the men then you blow up the ship,"

"I can't take all the credit for that," Aramis smirked, "I'm just bringing a flint; they are the ones hauling gunpowder,"

* * *

He blinked open his eyes.

Winced and closed them again, breathed through the churning in his stomach as his head ached and left him feeling like he was sinking in the solid surface that he was lying on. Pulling in a breath he grimaced as his ribs protested against the move but it gave him enough focus to open his eyes again and glance about the room he was in.

It was empty save for a few chairs and lit with two lanterns, one of which was set by his side and shed light on the bandages wrapped around his chest and waist. The lingering ache of a flesh wound underneath pulled at him as he shifted. Rolled onto the side that didn't feel like it would snap under his weight and swinging down his legs he pushed to sit up on the table.

The groan could not be avoided.

"That is not a wise move Monsieur soldier,"

Pressing a hand to his hurting side he craned his neck to watch the woman emerging from the door off to the side behind him. The glow that emitted across the threshold told him she was coming from a kitchen.

"It's Porthos Madame,"

"Charlene," said the woman, "just Charlene,"

She walked up to him, movements slow and poised as her blue eyes studied him with a disturbing intensity. Porthos shifted where he sat; there was something in the way she was looking at him, something almost like fascination in her gaze.

"Thank you for saving my life,"

"That wasn't me," she smiled, "I helped but it was my husband who went in the river after you,"

"A brave man,"

"Reckless more likely," she shook her head.

Perched on a chair, one leg crossing over the other as her eyes drew to the bandages, lingering over the stitches he could feel in the skin at the side of his forehead. Porthos rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, feeling heat rise to his face and caught the woman smile a little at the movement.

"But he seemed to have patched you up alright," she said.

Porthos let his fingers graze the tight thread holding his skin together.

"He did that?"

She nodded, her face splitting in a grin.

"And you stabbed him with a bottle to thank him,"

He grimaced, guilt and regret warring for dominance in his eyes when he met the woman's blue ones. With her elbow on her knee and her chin propped up on her hand she looked up at him as if he was the most interesting tableau on a canvas.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be, I think he learned his lesson to not leave the empty bottles lying about,"

"If I could apologize to the man before I leave –"

"He's sleeping but you can't leave just yet,"

Porthos shook his head and stood up, clutching the edge of the table when his vision wavered slightly. He had wasted enough time as it was; he only hoped that the food supply he was supposed to lead had not turned back when he had failed to reach them. At least with some luck he had reached the place he was supposed to. He let go of the table and forced his knees to take his weight; and that was when he realized that his weapons were missing. He looked up and the young woman rolled her eyes as if she had read his thoughts.

"Your armour is probably resting at the bottom of the river with your weapons belt but your doublet is there," she motioned with her head towards another chair, "your horses are outside,"

Porthos glanced at the chair where his doublet hung; his musketeer pauldron was there too. It was the new one, the one that had been commissioned before they had headed to war, one from the set of four they had ridden out with to Douai. He wondered what Athos had done with the extra one as Charlene got to her feet and picking up the doublet and the pauldron offered them to him.

"Thank you,"

She nodded, perched on the edge of the table and he drew away to shrug on his doublet, very aware of the eyes following his every move.

"You really do need to rest, there are at least two ribs likely cracked and your shoulder was out of joint,"

That explained why it hurt to move his arm. Porthos raised it experimentally and bit back a hiss. The woman tskd and hopped to her feet to get the bag that had been hanging from the same chair where his doublet had been. She grabbed a roll of bandage from it and turned to him, suddenly appearing too close. He stepped back and she grinned.

" _One day we'll sit down and I'll explain women to you,"_

He shook his head slightly and winced at the pain it caused. It was still better than the hot twinge behind his eyes the thought had brought him.

"Why are you in such a hurry Porthos?"

"I have to meet someone here, official business."

"And that wouldn't happen to do anything with the carts loaded with food that had left the men accompanying them guarding the stables of the Whaler's Inn third street from here?"

Porthos cleared his throat and looked straight ahead at the wall, despite everything he was not ready to trust this woman with what was desperately needed for his brother in arms; it was not something of his to give in trust. And yet he wondered if she had deliberately mentioned the food caravan to help him locate what he had feared lost. Was she helping him, was she sending him into a trap. His head hurt.

He started when Charlene draped the makeshift sling around his neck.

"Do you have a family Porthos?" she asked.

"Three brothers," he said.

Stepped away from her with a nod of gratitude and walked past her towards what he guessed was the main door. The night breeze held the cloying smell of fish oil and he looked up at the curling smoke that swirled in pale light of the moon. Out towards the sea, over the rooftops he could see the glow of a fire blazing atop a tower.

"The hunt is afoot," Charlene appeared in the doorway.

Turning his eyes to the five horses by the trough Porthos took the saddles the woman had brought him and began preparing his ride; Jean's horse beside his own a painful reminder of another soldier lost. He glanced at what looked like damaged wooden equipment and bits of rope at the side of the house.

"Your husband is one of the hunters?" he asked.

"A merchant,"

"At least tell me the name of the man who saved me,"

"Rene,"

He flinched, hand stilling on the girth he was tying up with one of his arms in a sling. He could hear the blood pounding in his veins as his hands curled into fists and something sharp cut into his lungs. He opened his eyes not knowing when he had closed them and let go a slow breath.

"I'm in his debt,"

"He isn't looking to collect,"

Porthos nodded and thanked her again, avoided the curious tilt of her head as he settled in the saddle. It took him a few seconds to find his balance at the new height, his chest tightening against the need to draw in a deeper breath. Adjusting the reins of Jean's horse in the hand hindered by the sling he turned the two animals around.

"Your brothers must be worried for you," Charlene said, "with the war going on,"

"They're both soldiers," he said.

"And the third?"

"What?" he pulled his horse to a stop.

Calmed it without conscious thought as the animal huffed in irritation while he met the blue eyes looking up at him; her serene expression pricked at him.

"You said you had three brothers,"

He did?

Porthos frowned.

"He's dead," he said.

And nudged his horse to a trot, leading the two animals down to the nearest end of the street. He found the Inn where Charlene had said it would be and saw the sentry loitering around the stables before he could read the signboard above the Inn's door.

"I'm Porthos du Vallon of the King's Musketeers here to see your Captain Henri d'Vienne."

Porthos reached for the missive he had tucked in the secret pocket of his doublet the morning before and found himself grasping a lumpy mush. Grimacing he wiped his fingers on his breeches as one of the men with a musket at his back came closer to look up at him.

"And what proof do you have of being a Musketeer?"

Dismounting he stood straighter despite the protest of his wounds and moved closer to the man, face setting in a scowl borne of frustration and worry for his brothers. He was already late in taking the supplies to them.

"And what kind of question is that?" he growled.

Shifted his shoulder just so and frowned; the pauldron was missing from its place and his frown deepened as he realized it was likely left sitting on the table at Charlene's home. Not letting the man see his confusion Porthos grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him forwards, hefted him close and up until the toes of his boots scrapped the ground.

"Now I have a regiment fighting at the border and waiting for the food that you're carrying and I plan to take it to them come bandits, high water or some duke's bought soldiers. So I will ask once more; where is your Captain?"

"I am here,"

It was the man nearest to the door of the stables. Porthos raised a brow, he hadn't imagined the man to be dedicated enough to be guarding the caravan himself. The man before him stepped back as Captain Henri; a silver haired man with dark eyes came forward.

"Porthos is it?"

He nodded.

"I was ambushed by the bandits on the way here, fell in the river and drenched the missive,"

"We heard about them on the road," Henri nodded, "Your Captain sent you out alone?"

"I lost my comrade to the bandits,"

It came out as a snap, his temper irked at what he saw as a jibe to Athos' skill as the Captain. The man before him glanced back at his men in a silent order and turned back to Porthos.

"Alright son, we'll head out with you and we might not be much but the Duke had sent us to get this food to the men at the borders and we will make sure that we do,"

Porthos nodded and mounted his horse again, biting back the gasp as a jolt of pain spread out from his ribs. He handed the reins of Jean's horse to one of Henri's men and turning his horse around he looked over to the Captain.

"I'll meet you at the south edge of the town in fifteen minutes," he said.

And urged his horse into a canter as much as the narrow lanes allowed him, making his way back to Charlene's house. He stopped by the trough, surprise flitting across his face to find no sign of the horses he had left behind. Dismounting and tying his own animal in place he reached for the broken harpoon leaning against the wall of the house. Slowly approached the front door that was left open and stepped quietly into the darkness beyond.

He wondered if the family had gone out but no good reason came to his mind as to why they would do so in the middle of the night, with the house left open and the man of the house injured. Someone or something had drawn them out or, Porthos stopped in the empty main room and looked around, it could be that they were in here and taken hostage by whoever had taken their horses. If that was the case Porthos could not leave without helping them, not least because they had saved his life.

"Charlene?" he whispered.

But only silence replied him.

Except that, there it was again.

A low moan.

Porthos hurried over to the kitchen door and pressing back against the wall he peered inside. The hearth fire was out but the window was open and the curtains not drawn. And there, in the square of the pale light of the waning moon lay an inert figure. Even in the dimness Porthos could tell the dark patch under it was blood. His grip tightening on the broken harpoon Porthos slowly moved ahead. Sprinting with speed and silence that had often surprised his enemies he reached the motionless form, relived for a second that it was not Charlene. It was a man and he wondered if it was her husband as he glanced at the musket shot that had hit the man in the back.

Porthos rolled him over, wincing at the low groan that his action caused. His brows pulled together in a frown at the sight of a face that had clearly taken a recent beating. He leaned forward when the blood stained lips moved, his eyes widening in surprise at finding the breathy murmur to be in Spanish.

"Who are you?" he muttered, straightening as the man stilled.

He looked around him.

There was something odd, something missing that he could feel about the house ever since he had woken up in it and the dying man's Spanish words only added to his suspicion. The stillness about him told of a place abandoned and as Porthos got to his feet it dawned on him that the kitchen held no pots and pans and as he made his way back to the front room his mind finally touched upon the fact that he hadn't come across a single item that would show the place to be lived in. No shoes lying about, no carelessly discarded shirt, no curtains on the window, no cloth on the table. He stopped before the table where his pauldron lay and looked around again, his eyes falling on the foot prints left on the dusty floor before they settled on the handful of bloody bandages tossed with empty wine bottle to the side. Charlene had taken the bandage for his sling from a bag, a supplies bag not a drawer where one would keep such things in a home.

She had lied; his fingers curled against the leather of his pauldron and gooseflesh trailed up his arms.

His first instinct about these people was right, they were likely Spanish spies. Porthos closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, flinching when his fingers grazed the stitches there. He tried to think if he had unknowingly passed on some important information.

"The food caravan," it left him in a hushed whisper.

He rushed out of the house, fearing the safety of the men who had come with the desperately needed supplies for his regiment and stopped short at the echo of a blast that rolled through the night air. The sky was glowing orange far over the sea and as the distant booms rumbled people came stumbling out of their houses. Porthos mounted his horse and rode past the anxious faces and on towards the sea. Pushing through the throngs gathered at the shore he stared at the ball of fire floating over water, flames leaping skywards as the chunks of burning wood fell into the sea and the people stared in awe.

"Was it one of ours?" someone asked.

"I hope not," someone else replied.

But Porthos knew it was a Spanish warship, he knew the sound of exploding bombs and the ferocity with which the gunpowder burned. His eyes scanned the waters for more warships, wondering if there was an armada coming over the dark line of the horizon and yet there were too many boats and ships out to hunt the whale that any one of them could be the one carrying Spanish troops in disguise.

Porthos turned his horse around, the arm in the sling bracing his sore ribs as he urged the animal into a fast canter. He needed to get the supplies safely back to his regiment and report the possibility of an army closing in on them from the back.

* * *

"GET DOWN!"

Another hollow boom.

And the men a stride away from him were cut down as if they were a line of paper figures; the tunnel of air shoving him back from them and off of his feet. Athos pushed up to his knees and peered at the darkness above that rained death on them, wiped the blood off from his eyes, refused to acknowledge the taste of it on his lips, the warmth of it on his chilled skin. He steeled himself against the rampant loss of his men as he silently urged d'Artagnan to hurry up. Getting the enemy cannons focused their way was a literal bloody risk.

"How long Captain?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Cornet, noting the ravage look beyond the mud and grime and blood on the young face and suddenly remembered the man as the recruit outside his office with d'Artagnan's message. He looked nothing like that memory of what seemed from a different life.

"A few more minutes," he said.

His voice coming out calmer than he had expected it to be; showing nothing of the horror and utter disgust at the loss of life around him, hinting to none of the crushing weight against his breath that it were his orders that had brought them here.

Cornet nodded and glanced back up at the top of the hill, not mentioning that this is what Athos had replied a few minutes earlier. Athos followed his line of sight and held on tightly to the faith he held in the stubbornness of the young friend he had sent to lead the majority of their men through the wetland on the other side of the hill.

He ducked instinctually when a deafening explosion from above ripped the night air.

And then another.

And another.

And screams, raw and wailing filled the night.

His heartbeat was an anxious presence in his throat, the echo of the blasts reverberating in his bones. But what his mind registered was the pause in the rain of cannonballs, it took him a few minutes but it dawned on him that there were three explosions, three that were different from the ones that had been coming their way.

"The cannons," he whispered, "the cannons,"

He looked up again, noticing the slowing of the fire shooting their way and he knew this was their chance; hoped that it was d'Artagnan who had made from the other side. Scrabbling to find his footing on the slight incline Athos pushed to his feet and raised his sword.

"Charge!" he bellowed, "Charge! CHARGE!"

He was up the last stretch of the slope leading his men in a vengeful wave crashing onto the enemy. Blades and musket shots searched out blood through flesh and Athos carried on cutting through any man that stood against him. His wavering strength reigniting when in the glow of the flames devouring the enemy camp he recognized the faces of the men that he had sent with d'Artagnan.

Pulling his rapier out of the man in front of him he turned to the next.

Only this one threw down his sword, empty hands rising slightly.

Athos blinked, his sword still raised although not lunging for the easily accessible target. His breaths coming in torn gasps he forced his arm steady as he looked from the corner of his eye at the slowing frenzy. On his left, on his right the enemy soldiers were throwing down their weapons, they had for once been outnumbered.

Because we've cut them down to that number Athos realized as he changed his stance, standing at rest as he observed the battlefield. With a tilt of his head he ordered his men to start taking prisoners as his eyes sought the face he had bid farewell to a few hours earlier.

"Captain?"

He blinked at the man suddenly in front of him.

"Have you seen d'Artagnan?"

"No sir, but I can look for him,"

"You do that," he nodded.

Stumbled past the frowning soldier and tried to decipher one grime covered man from the other, he would not look for him among the dead and the dying, not yet, not until he absolutely had to. His eyes snapped up at the soldier who had stepped to his side, it was the same one from before.

"Did you find him?"

"No but Captain –"

"Find him," he ordered.

His stomach clenched, a cutting pain slicing at his insides and he curled an arm around it. It was different from the pain he had suffered when he had withdrawn from consuming his usual amount of wine but had the same intensity, prompting the same swirling need to throw up. His flesh shivered under his skin that felt like a brittle tree bark barely managing to hold it in place.

Athos still walked on, searching, hoping, wanting to find the one brother he knew was with him in the battlefield. His right leg trembled under him, there was pain there somewhere but he hadn't the time for that, not yet, not yet.

He stopped, peering at the soldiers milling about, the victorious and the surrendered all exhausted while the dead and the wounded littered the ground. His eyes settled on the figure coming towards him, armour nearly black in the dim light, but that face, that smile as the man approached him.

"d'Artagnan..." it was a whisper.

And then darkness.

* * *

He rubbed at his eyes and winced at the dry itchy feeling of them under his knuckles. Swiping his hand down his face he sat forward in the chair he had been occupying for hours now and studied the man on the narrow cot. Gaze trailing to the bandaged leg where a long row of stitches were hidden under the white linen and tried to forget just how badly the slice in the flesh there had bled, made worse by the fact that the stubborn fool kept walking on it, kept walking when he could have stopped to at least bind the wound, kept walking because he had been searching for him.

D'Artagnan shook his head slowly, forcing himself to not dwell on the moment when his heart had stopped in his chest. A shiver ran down his spine as the vision of Athos crumpling like a marionette without strings flashed before his eyes.

"Should I get Marcel?"

His head felt heavy as he lifted it to look at Alain, the man who had been hovering by Athos' shoulder, who had caught him when the Captain fell, when d'Artagnan was just too far to reach him in time.

"He checked on him an hour ago but with the regiment down to two physicians he has a lot to work with,"

Alain nodded, eyes turning to their unconscious Captain and d'Artagnan let him have his silence. He was simply grateful to watch Athos breathe and reached out to lay a hand on his friend's clammy forehead, it was still a little warm but Marcel had assured him that the fever was only the result of weakness and exhaustion. That much was clear by the sight of the pale face that looked haggard even in unconsciousness, the dark dips under the closed eyes and the sunken cheeks that the beard and the air of authority usually hid were obvious now. Athos never had truly recovered his apatite after the bouts of vomiting he had suffered when he had withdrawn from drinking copious amount of wine. The shortage of food hadn't helped.

D'Artagnan withdrew his hand; fingers grazing over the bandage that covered the path a musket ball had burned at the point where Athos' neck met his shoulder. It had been too close, too close to him losing his brother, if that musket ball had been a little more to the right – his hand curled into a fist and d'Artagnan pulled it back.

"I should have said something," Alain said.

"He would have gone on," d'Artagnan reached for the cloth in the bowl of water by his feet and squeezed out the excess moisture, "even if he had been aware that he was injured."

He dabbed the slightly warm forehead and wiped the ashen face, hoping for a sign of awareness and blinking back tears when there was none.

"I meant about him not eating,"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, gut churning with guilt because he should have noticed, he should have seen this; should have put a stop to it when his friend had taken to starve himself. He should have known that Athos, the inane noble fool that he was would have taken to cut back on his share of food for his men.

Great lot of good that did them.

Dropping the cloth back in the bowl he drew a sleeve over his eyes and nearly jumped in his seat when heavy steps hurried into the Captain's tent. He turned and stared at the man for long minutes, noting the stitches on the side of his forehead and the arm that was in a sling.

"Porthos,"

He was up and pulling the man in an embrace between one breath and the next. Closing his eyes he reveled in the feel of the arm at his back that instinctually held him close. This was support, this was stability, this was brotherhood.

"Is he…?"

D'Artagnan pulled back with a bark of laughter only just shy of hysteria.

"Alive, and will be on the mend as soon as he wakes up to eat something,"

He saw the implication of his words seep into Porthos' mind; saw his understanding in the grim pursing of his lips and the tightening at the corner of his eyes. D'Artagnan, feeling much more hopeful and steadier laid a hand on his friend's good shoulder and guided him to the chair.

"And what happened to you?" he asked.

Looked back at where Alain had been and realized the man had already slipped out. Pulling close the only other chair he dragged it beside Porthos, squeezing it in the little space that was left near Athos' head. He watched as Porthos reached out to lay his hand on their Captain's chest, saw him close his eyes at the feel of his brother's beating heart. D'Artagnan grasped Porthos' arm that was resting in a sling, his touch light yet solid. And that was how they sat as the big man explained what he had went through and what he had seen.

By the time silence settled again d'Artagnan could feel the unease stirring like an errant breeze through the small tent. He tried not to think what damage an enemy army at their back with one at their front could have cost them. Suppressing a shiver at the stroke of good luck that had destroyed the galley at sea he glanced down at Athos and startled. The bleary blue eyes were open at half mast and staring back at him.

"Athos,"

The man swallowed, winced as d'Artagnan reached for the cup of water he had been keeping at the Captain's desk. Sliding a hand under his brother's head he helped him raise a little to drink the water he pressed to the cracked lips. He wasn't pleased when Athos stopped after just a few sips but eased the man down nonetheless, his fingers lingering over the bandage near his friend's neck. Dark eyes flew to meet tired blue ones when shaky fingers grasped the hand d'Artagnan had been hesitant to retrieve.

A small smile met an understanding crooked one.

"I'll live," Athos said.

"I'll hold you to that,"

"Better yet, we'll make sure of it," Porthos growled.

Athos' brows rose in amusement as much as they did in challenge but worry flashed in his eyes when they took in the sight of the big man.

"What happened to you?"

"Porthos fell in the river and was rescued by a river sprite and her husband who he thinks might be working for the Spanish," d'Artagnan sat back down, hand still holding his brother's, "and he witnessed the result of leaving a lit candle unattended in the gunpowder storage of a warship,"

Athos' eyes rounded.

Porthos chuckled as he gently patted his Captain on the chest.

"Don't worry Athos;" he said, "it'll make sense to you soon enough,"

* * *

He sniffled.

Cleared his throat to get rid of the tickling there and sat up straighter in the saddle.

He will not sneeze, he absolutely will not sneeze.

Aramis closed his eyes to tamp down the urge and let his horse follow Kitty's. The wound at his side throbbed mercilessly and each clomp of the steady pace sent a ripple of dull ache through his joints. His dip in the river followed by his dive in the sea had left his head feeling too light and too heavy at the same time, there was also the chance that being thrown back by the exploding hull of the galley was the reason but Aramis didn't want to think about that.

"We could stop for a while,"

He shook his head slightly just as he had when Devereux had offered him the rest the past four times.

"We're almost there," he said.

"We're not in a hurry,"

"I am,"

Devereux gave him a quizzical look but Aramis decided against explaining his need to get to the frontlines quickly, Kitty had told him that Porthos was as good as could be expected after what he had been through but he needed to see it with his own eyes. So he let his horse fall in step with Devereux's and hoped that he was not coming down with a cold. Pinching the bridge of his nose Aramis cleared his throat again before he glanced to the man at his side.

"I was wrong," he said.

Devereux almost yanked his horse to a stop.

"About what?"

Aramis rubbed the back of his neck but turned his head to face the man he owed the apology to. His eyes met the dark confused ones and he made sure that his words were heard clearly.

"I had no right to make you face your fears like I did," he said, "it was needed yes, will I do it again in the same situation? Yes. But I need you to know that I'm aware that I was wrong to force you like that,"

"Is this an apology?" Devereux asked.

Dark brows knitting into a frown, displeasure and vengeance flashing in dark eyes at the thought of those moments.

"It can't be if I don't look to change my actions," his voice was even.

No hint of the disgust that he felt for what he was becoming, for accepting that he had to do what his conscience told him was wrong. He would do what was needed, and live with the shadow that stretched just a bit more as he gave in little by little. But then what was a bit more guilt to add to the mountain he was carrying anyway? Aramis let his gaze drift back to the trail they were following, it would lead him back to his brothers at least as far as he allowed it. Silence settled over them as the sun rose steadily in the sky, where for once there seemed to be no cloud on the horizon.

"I was a soldier in their army until I was told I had stolen from the crown," Devereux said, "was thrown into a ship's belly to serve ten years, I did four,"

Aramis inclined his head, listening yet not asking for more.

"Down there I saw the ones they had bought, watched them slowly wither away in their shackles," he looked straight ahead, "They hadn't the hope that I had; for it all to end if I survived and still I couldn't take it. Escaped the first proper chance I got. But only few of them survived to try that; for them that was it. That was their lives."

" _Men are born free. No-one has the right to make slaves of them,"_

" _Yes, but the real world isn't driven by romantic notions of freedom, is it? It's driven by commerce. And I'm a trader. That's all. I deal in commodities."_

"A man is not a commodity," Aramis echoed his friend.

"In our world they are," Devereux said.

And Aramis found them grating against the soldier in him that he had assumed lost. The soldier who had believed in honour, in serving the crown, a crown he trusted to be just when Athos was accused for murder, when Bonnaire was brought forward for his crimes, when Porthos was framed for murder but he had only seen a mockery of it, seen it floundered and used to serve the purpose of those who were in the position to do so. He had believed himself outgrown that expectation but now suddenly he found it pushing back.

"That will change, for the better," he was surprised by the conviction in his own voice.

"A man of faith eh?"

Aramis shrugged, not dwelling on it and by the silence that followed he thought that was the end of it. But then the man at his side turned his head to look at him. He met the gaze that lingered on him and Devereux' shoulder rose in half a shrug.

"It's like you said, I wouldn't have come aboard if I hadn't wanted to Captain," he said.

"Rene,"

Devereux smirked.

"Of course,"

The sound of a sharp whistle brought his attention to the woman ahead of them. When the softer tone replied a few minutes later Aramis let go a breath he didn't know he was holding. He had just dismounted when two young men bounded up to him, covered in dirt and drying blood although the patches of clean skin proved some effort had been made to get rid of it. Bazin and Planchet stopped just short of pouncing on him with their wide grins and eyes alight with excitement.

"Captain you should have seen it!"

"I've never heard anything like it before!"

"It was so loud –"

"– and the air just –"

"– BOOM!"

"–WHOOSH!"

"Lads," Aramis shook his head slightly and looked them up and down for any sign of injury, "what did you do?"

"It wasn't us," Planchet shook his head.

"It was Mousequeton," Bazin added.

Aramis turned to regard the narrow faced man who shrugged a shoulder.

"Our charges decided to launch a surprise attack in the dead of the night," he said, "I blew up the Spanish cannons,"

And suddenly his blood chilled in his veins. He stumbled back a little, coming to a stop against his horse. Aramis cleared his throat for a completely different reason than the cold from his adventures in water. He nodded slowly as he looked from one man to the other.

"Anyone of you injured?" he asked.

"Cuts and bruises," Planchet said.

"I'll go and check on the regiment then," he said.

Turned towards the path they had traced through the copse of trees to the west, it would take him longer to get there but provide a better cover for observation. He had only taken a few steps when a hand on his arm stopped him. He glanced at the woman who was frowning at him.

"Do I need to keep an eye on you?" she asked.

"You know I wouldn't expose us,"

Blue eyes studied him, there was something there ever since she had met them on the shore to tell them that the soldier had left her care to meet the food caravan and she had killed the escaping spy, and no, the man they had recued hadn't witnessed it.

"No," she shook her head and let him go, "you wouldn't,"

Aramis didn't question her thoughts, surprised to find himself trusting her to explain whatever bothered here when she thought it was the right time. Instead he made his way through the trees, trekking across the still damp ground until he finally neared the Musketeer camp. Choosing the right tree came easily to him, climbing the same tree proved difficult with his aching body and torn stitches. He would have to redo them soon Aramis reminded himself as he braced a hand over the bandage tied low around his stomach and settled onto one of the sturdier branch. And then he watched like an eager child awaiting a gift.

And a gift it was, an exquisite torture and a bone melting relief, just to see the men he called brothers safe for one more day when they faced death so often.

As though summoned by his searching eyes his brother's emerged from the Captain's tent, Athos moving slowly as he leaned onto d'Artagnan while Porthos brought up the rear. He watched the way the other Musketeers made way for them, dereference clear in their movements as they made room for the three by the fire.

" _Porthos needs your loyalty now more than ever,"_

As his finger traced the rope burn on his wrist Aramis watched his brothers settle in the sunshine that had been denied to them for quite some time.

"And you shall have it," he murmured, "all three of you, always."

* * *

 **TBC**

 **The longest chapter yet!**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank You guest reviewers Debbie, Jmp and Guest for taking the time to leave me your thoughts.**

 **A/N: Okay, now I know you all are waiting for the resolution of this plot and I can promise you it will come (in all its angsty glory) but I don't want anyone to feel betrayed, or disappointed at the end of this story so at the risk of losing the interest of you lovely readers in this fic I just want to clarify that these are the chronicles set in the four year gap between season 2 and 3. It will eventually lead to the first episode of season 3 and the entire plot is basically in 3 Acts, the one-shot before this being the 1** **st, this being the 2nd and then there will be a 3rd.** **So...yes, there you have it; I just didn't want anyone to feel let down when this fic ends. Thank you for all your kind words and amazing support!**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Twenty eight months into the war…**_

The line looked innocent; the uneven borders of the loops it curved through hinted no peril of the mountains that they represented. He sat back and looked from the map on his right, with bent corners and creases that left it slightly curled upwards, to the smaller relatively better off piece of paper on his left. Wiping his fingers on his breeches he put the two maps together and traced everything that he had copied onto the smaller paper. Satisfied, Aramis folded up the older map and blew lightly on the one he had drawn the needed section on; flapping it lightly to hurry the ink along in its drying he got to his feet.

Somewhere a wolf howled.

Aramis found himself glancing at the two lumps by the cold fire pit even as he went to Devereux who was cleaning his musket where he sat by a tree. Handing him the crude map he swung the corner of his cloak up onto the opposite shoulder. Leaning against the tree at his side he crossed his arms to hold in the heat as he watched Planchet and Bazin stiffen in their sleep again when an answering howl echoed in the distance.

Devereux studied the piece of paper before looking up at him.

"And this is the only route?" he asked.

"The fastest and the difficult," Aramis said, "more of a direction than a path,"

"The best choice for spies to reach the fort guarding the pass," Devereux nodded, "Do you suppose they're the ones raiding the settlements?"

His thoughts went back to the burning cottages and the slaughtered people they had come across. Since they were following the French army Aramis couldn't help but link the trail of destruction to the soldiers ahead of them. After all if it was anyone else they would have come across them even if the army hadn't.

"It has to be," he said, "With the distance between us, a group from that camp would be able to access and raid the settlements before we come across them,"

"And spies would sow seeds of discontentment to weaken the French crown," Devereux nodded.

But it was not to create discontentment; that much he was certain of but he could not understand yet what it was for. The brutality was driven by something else. He had realized they hadn't come across any survivors, to spread ill will against the crown one would need to leave back live witnesses.

"Discontentment is the last reason I would go for," he shook his head.

The other man tilted his head to study his face; he didn't question his thoughts but simply rolled up the map. Something almost like amusement flashed in Devereux's eyes

"Kitty's coming with me?" he asked.

"She's the best tracker we've got,"

"She won't be happy,"

Aramis shrugged, a grin flashing across his face at the thought of the woman's wrath upon hearing that she would be scouting on ahead just after she and Alois would return with the supplies.

"That's better than her being bored," Aramis said.

"Wise choice," the other man nodded sagely.

Because none of them wanted to be on guard for her errant throwing daggers while they were in camp, they had enough reason to keep alert as it was. Her 'reflex training' upon unsuspecting victims had left them all nicked and grazed. Aramis shook his head at the thought of the two he hoped would arrive by nightfall and turned instead to the two still sleeping. The cold afternoon made it difficult to judge the time but he guessed they had had enough rest.

Crouching near one of the lumps he made sure not touch or jostle.

"Anyone alive in there?" he asked.

The lump rolled away from him, bumped into the one next to it and the two young men sat up with a start. Wide eyed and alert, pressing together at the shoulders as their breath came quick and short. Aramis sighed and reached out to grasp an arm each as he had done for most awakenings in the past days. He waited for the pair of darting eyes to be drawn his way, waited for the two to meet his gaze, for the shivering under his hands to settle.

"Captain," Planchet nodded.

"We're good," Bazin added.

And Aramis let them go.

Stood up and turned his back to them as he took up a stick and poked the ashes of the fire where the pot of porridge was nestled. There were still some embers left under the soot that Aramis hoped had kept at least some portion of the porridge mildly warm. He went about getting the bowls and filled them up just as the two younger men were done stowing away their beddings. As they flopped down by the circle of ashes Aramis handed them their breakfast, his mind wandering over to Mousequeton who had gone out on patrol when Devereux had returned. With the lack of cover forcing them to camp much nearer to the army once again, he had taken to send out one person at a time for the smaller range of their boundary. His eyes scanned the direction the man had disappeared in and a frown flashed across his face, there was something in the valley air, a hint of a smell that was too faint for him to pin down.

"Thank you,"

Aramis blinked, fingers stopping where they had started cleaning the pistol that he didn't remember taking out of his belt. Turning around from where he had come to stand with a shoulder pressed against the tree at his side he nodded at Bazin and resumed the work he had had apparently set himself.

"For everything," Planchet said.

He looked up from the slim barrel and found himself the target of two sets of dark eyes, there was something in them that he couldn't quite accept. Aramis dropped his gaze back to the pistol, stuck the rag inside the barrel and gave it a twist, pulling it out he shook the cloth to clear away streaks of soot and shrugged a shoulder.

"I didn't do anyth –"

"You've set us on the night watch for this past week," Planchet interrupted him.

"For the entire night, not just hours," Bazin said.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"And you think you should thank me for that?"

"With no need for a change of watch at different hours we can do it together,"

"And being lookouts means we get to spend the nights safe in a tree, while sleeping in the mornings makes sure that we're alert and ready when it really starts," Planchet glanced past him into the trees before shaking his head, "and now they've started it in the mornings too,"

Bazin bumped his shoulder with the man at his side and his friend repaid in kind. The tension easing out from Planchet as the other man offered him a grin. Aramis looked away, tried not to remember the months after Savoy when a grounding touch, a whispered assurance had been all that had kept him tethered to the world; because it only reminded him how sorely that bond was missing from his life. Wiping down his weapon one more time he put it back above the hilt of his rapier next to his other pistol. He glanced up at the sky that the pointed trees didn't really block out and calculated that Mousequeton should have been back by then. They were nearly at the edge of the tree line this side of the clearing in which the French army had camped; there wasn't much area to cover for a lookout.

"It's just that we've seen what they can do," Planchet said, "the wolves."

He had guessed that much.

"Homeless orphans and hungry animals is a violent mix," Bazin's voice shook through his smirk even as he looked Aramis right in the eyes, "we were young, unarmed and unprepared. It's not something you'd easily forget,"

" _We were camping near the French border. It was a training exercise. We had no reason to be on our guard..."_

Aramis shook off the memories both new and old that clung to him like the chill in the air, biting and burning and leaving him numbed.

"No you wouldn't," he said.

Inhaled deeply and his eyes widened.

That smell in the air.

He straightened, a hand going to his rapier even as his steps hurried into a sprint. Distantly he was aware of Devereux falling in step with him and glanced over his shoulder to find Bazin and Planchet already preparing the horses. The last cluster of cottages had been a quarter of an hour's ride away; if the whiffs of smoke were reaching them Aramis could only imagine the fires they were emitting from. This time he just wished they would be able to save someone.

Coming out of the trees where they had camped at the foot of the mountain Aramis searched the open stretch for any sign of riders coming or going towards the army camp behind them. A curse fell from his lips when the dark swirl that was not a cloud stained the sky ahead of them and Devereux echoed his sentiment.

"You smelled smoke," it was a statement not a question.

"Keep an eye on out for the raiders," Aramis said, "if they had ridden out we would have heard them from our camp,"

Turned around to mount one of the two free horses Bazin and Planchet had brought out with their own. He didn't miss the extra satchels on each animal, the ones carrying medical supplied that he had made sure were a permanent fixture with the saddle bags of each of his companions. Maybe these would save more than just their own lives this time he hoped and nudged his horse into a canter.

Heart thumping in time with the pace of his horse Aramis sought out the people that should be running out from the dirt paths that trailed between the burning houses. Heat, heavy with the smell of charred wood and burnt straw rolled out to great them as he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted quickly, his sword in his hand as he dodged the flock of sheep that swarmed towards him. And behind them was a man with a blazing torch and a bloodstained dagger.

"An' who're you?"

"Your demise," Aramis stepped up to stab him in the gut.

Pulling out his sword from the crumpling figure he moved ahead. The hot air tasted like ash, stifled with the bleating and clucking of terrified farm animals but it was the sound not there, the silence of the people he expected to find that scared him the most; hardened the lines of his face as his eyes fell on the path before him. Light from the flames danced on the bodies that dotted the dirt trail, the lucky ones having fell by a weapon. The stench of burned flesh made his stomach roil as sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he stepped back from the blade swiping at him. It was a man wearing the French colours; it still didn't stop Aramis from piercing through the gap in the man's armour.

He turned the corner by the smoldering remains of a wagon and registered two things, a soldier far to his side was standing over Mousequeton who lay clutching his leg and up ahead was another one, laughing as he made a grab for the woman crawling away from him.

His sword dropped from his grasp, his pistols were out and Aramis fired.

Two soldiers fell.

And he moved ahead not bothered by the fact that he had just broken one of his rules; the rule of not to use firepower whenever camped near the army so that they would not attract unwanted attention.

"Captain,"

"Get Mousequeton," he told Devereux.

And hurried over to the woman, crouching down at her side he laid a gentle hand on the quivering shoulder. He pulled back instantly when she whimpered.

"Shsh… Madame please…" he tried again; bit back a wince against the violent flinch through her body, "I'm trying to help…please I –"

His words were cut off when the woman suddenly rolled onto her back with a chocked gasp. The sound twisting his insides even as the glazed eyes found his, tear tracks shining through a soot streaked face as she coughed, moaned and clenched her eyes shut again. Aramis rested a palm on her forehead, eyes trailing down the burn that went from the side of her neck down to her front and knew that it was not just the dirt that had blackened the flesh.

There was nothing he could do to save her; his eyes gleamed at her moans when he looked up at Bazin and Planchet as they approached him.

"They're making a run for it,"

"No survivors,"

The woman's hand twitched in the dirt, fingers digging in the soil until Aramis clasped them and raised them to his heart. Her dulling eyes met his own in a plea.

"Shoot the bastards," he said, "I don't care if the entire regiment is upon us,"

He didn't look up to see the young men racing off to do as instructed.

"Shh…"

"Marie –" she sobbed, "cellar –m'daughter…Marie…"

Her free hand scrabbled in the dirt again and Aramis sat back abruptly. He nodded to himself even as he got to his feet, bounding up to the burning cottage as he realized that she hadn't been crawling away from the man but towards the home, she had been trying to get to her daughter.

The door splintered under the force of his kick, splitting where the heat had softened it as sparks flew and the flames inside hurried to lick at the gust of air. His arms rose instinctually against his face and Aramis coughed as he stepped into the blistering smoke. Stepped back as the wooden beam above gave a shuddering creak and collapsed, sending a flare of embers up in the air as the straw roof crumbled in, feeding the flames before him.

He coughed.

"Marie?" it was not the shout he wanted, "Marie!"

His eyes watered, the very air scalding a path up his nose. Waving a hand before his face he peered through the smoke until his eyes fell on the metal ring that marked the door in the floor. Taking a few steps back he leapt over the burning beam and skidded to a stop, boots losing purchase on the heated floor until he landed on his knees.

He gasped at the suddenly cleaner air near the ground.

"Marie?"

He grabbed the metal ring and yanked the door open.

"Marie?"

"Maman? Maman!"

He reached down and gathered the small girl, holding her close and smoothing out the golden curls almost on instinct as the little face pressed into his shoulder.

"Maman!"

"Hush ma chéri,"

His lips pressed to the sweat damp head even as he dodged the falling chunk of the roof and stepped around the new glob of flames by his feet. Whispering assurances to the sobbing girl in his hold he looked up and down the broken beam until he found the spot where the flames seemed thinner and leapt over it. Coughing and blinking against the stinging in his eyes he made his way out of the burning house. The small child sniffling and clinging to his front raised her head but Aramis gently pressed it back to his shoulder, not wanting her to see the still form of her mother.

"You're fine ma chéri," he murmured, "you're safe now love,"

"Maman," she sniffed, "maman,"

"Sh…mi tesoro, don't look, don't look,"

He rocked the child as he searched the burning settlement for more threats. Hurrying over to where he had dropped his sword he hummed under his breath, the song from the haze of his infancy a low murmur past his lips.

"…baila conmigo mi amor bajo las estrellas…"

The child sniffled, wiped her nose on his shoulder before small arms wrapped around his neck. Aramis felt them tightening as he neared Devereux who was tying up the bandage around Mousequeton's leg. The injured man gave him a wide eyed stare that looked just a touch hazy.

"A pistol shot burned a grove in his leg and he got knocked on the head," Devereux explained.

"I saw them go in there," Mousequeton shook his head and winced, "followed them when the screams rose. Couldn't stand by and watch another massacre, couldn't let the bloody bastards –"

"Mousequeton," Aramis stopped his rant, nodding towards the child in his grasp, "we have a lady with us,"

"Injured?"

Aramis shook his head.

"Nothing visible," he said, "heat, smoke, fear,"

The clatter of horse hooves had him turning around; his heart skipping a beat when Marie didn't hold on tighter and his free hand flew to press against the child's neck. He whispered a prayer of thanks to find the steady beat there, relieved to find the child only sleeping. Planchet and Bazin simply nodded, it was done and Aramis was reminded of the reason why Treville had recruited them for this; young they were but deadly too.

"We'll move to the second site," he said as Devereux helped up their injured companion, "you two clear out the old one and leave markers for Alois and Kitty,"

The younger men nodded although Aramis didn't miss the flash of fear in their eyes. Even as they turned their horses to carry out the orders he knew the second site would only add to the lads' nightmares. He looked back to where Devereux had pulled a swaying Mousequeton up beside him and tried not to think about the regiment he was sure now to be alerted of their presence.

"C'mon then, we have ways to go,"

* * *

The first sound of pistol shot had his eyes seeking the Captain's.

The next volley of echoes prompted him to move.

The metal plates clinking lightly as he tightened the straps of his armour and called out to the men he was supposed to take for scouting ahead; but the shots had been fired somewhere at the back of their camp. And he knew only too well of the enemy's attempts to pin them between two armies; something that they could not afford. Especially not now when they were preparing to lay siege at the fort in the mountain pass ahead.

Stepping into the stirrup he swung up on his horse and adjusted the sword at his side. As the men followed his lead he checked his pouch of gunpowder one last time, laying a calming hand on the horse's neck as it pawed the ground.

"Told you we needed to send out scouts at our backs," Porthos said, "something wasn't right with the way those villagers treated us,"

D'Artagnan looked down at the man and a grin flashed on his face.

"Was the spiting in our direction the first clue or the way they scurried away at the sight of us?" he asked.

"War is an expensive affair and people grow resentful of the taxes it costs them," Athos shook his head and looked up at him, "Remember there are only three of you out there; don't engage in a fight if it's possible. Collect information and I'll send out reinforcements to you."

He nodded.

"And d'Artagnan," Athos grabbed the reins of the horse.

Pulled the animal to a standstill as the blue eyes met his own; faith and fear warring for dominance there. For a second the mantle of the Captain slipped and the brother was visible.

"Don't even think about doing anything stupid," he said.

"I never think about it Athos," he grinned.

"D'Artagnan..." and there was the Captain.

"I shall not take any needless risks," he amended.

"And we shall witness pigs take flight," Porthos snorted.

D'Artagnan grinned and pulled the reins back from Athos' grasp. Nudging his horse to move he turned it around and led it ahead of the two men who would go out with him. It wasn't the first time he was going on a scouting assignment and it would not be the last either. And yet every time the fear coiled in his gut, the fear that this would be the last time he would see his brothers alive. The past years had taught him nothing if not how easy it was for a life to end.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught two pair of eyes staring back.

"Stay safe," Porthos ordered him.

"Both of you," he nodded.

"All of us," Athos said.

And d'Artagnan turned his sight ahead with a grin, urged his horse to break into a canter, speeding through the clearing they had been camped in and into the thicket. Cold packed dirt flew in specks and chunks as he guided his horse among the tall trees, the sound of horse hooves echoing three folds in the cold air as the other two followed. He was the first one to burst out of the tree line on the other side.

Eyes widening he pulled his horse to a harsh stop, lurched in the saddle as the animal reared even as he raised a fist in the air.

"Hold!"

The animal under him nearly turned all the way round at the sudden pull of the reins but d'Artagnan's eyes never left the carnage, head turning to keep the dead soldiers in sight. And there were seven of them he counted; seven French soldiers cooling in their own pools of blood over the yellow-green stretch. D'Artagnan dismounted, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenching against the rising anger as his gaze flicked from the dead men to the grey smoke that hung like a symbol of death over what would have been a small settlement beyond.

Cornett pulled his horse up next to him.

"Raiders?"

"Most likely," d'Artagnan crouched by the dead soldier, "but my guess is they've left already. You go ahead and check on the villagers and Alain report back to the Captain,"

"What about you?" Cornett asked.

"I'll follow," he said.

Didn't look up to watch the two men ride off in opposite directions as he carefully rolled the body onto its back and frowned as he vaguely recognized the face; it was one of the men from one of General Pierre's battalion. He didn't know the man's name because they usually kept to themselves but as he went from one dead soldier to the other it became clear that they were all under the same command. Getting back to his feet he stepped back slightly, gazing down the way Cornett had gone towards the smoldering remains of the cottages and then back at the trees they had come from. All of the soldiers had been shot through the head from behind; d'Artagnan drew a hand through his hair as it dawned on him that the dead soldiers had been returning to their campsite.

It took him a minute, for his mind to register what his eyes were seeing.

There were prints on the ground. Pressed onto the yellow-green grass were prints of horse hooves that seemed to arch off from the bodies and into the tree line beyond.

"But you weren't riding," d'Artagnan muttered as he looked back to the dead men, "and they could be headed for our camp,"

That had him moving back towards the thicket. With a hand griping hilt of his rapier at his side he hurried after the trail of the raiders; following the tracks into the trees just a little way away from the path they had taken only a few minutes ago. A soft thump reached his ears and he stopped, pressed back against a tree bark and pulled out his pistol.

There was a scratching sound, a low mummer and the unmistakable sound of a restless horse. Peering around the tree he hid behind d'Artagnan saw the figure in the brown cloak stand up from where he had been crouching; reason told him that there had to be another person there for he had heard two voices.

Slowly he moved out of his hiding spot, pistol raised and aimed at the back of the figure that was moving towards the muzzle of a musket pressing to the back of his head was a surprise. Tamping down the urge to move he forced himself to remain calm, his neck rigid against the threat pressed to his skull.

"I am a Musketeer," his voice did not waver, "show yourself in the name of the King,"

The figure ahead of him turned but he couldn't see the face hidden in the shadow of the hood. Yet d'Artagnan didn't miss the pistol aimed his way. It didn't shift even as the brown cloaked form swung up on the saddle and the press of the musket at his back shifted almost as if the person holding it was reminding him not to move.

"You murdered my comrades; I cannot let you go free,"

The person behind him snorted.

And d'Artagnan shifted, ducked as he turned under the enemy's musket and fired. The shot went wide and he gasped as a booted foot connected with front. He landed on his back; breath rattling is his chest as his assailant rode off. Heaving in air through a suddenly parched throat d'Artagnan pushed up to his knees, pulling out his other pistol before he fired at the retreating figures.

But they were gone, disappearing into the trees leading up to the mountain slope.

* * *

The man sat back in his chair, blue eyes holding the distinct contempt of one entitled to his superiority.

"And what are you implying Captain?"

The post of respect at the end of the question twisted into a barely concealed sneer in that voice and Athos clenched his hand over the pommel of his parrying dagger where it rested at his side. This man was a living embodiment of some of the many reasons why he hated the title he had been born into.

"I'm not implying anything General; I am asking what your men were doing away from the camp,"

"Scouting,"

"Ten of them?"

The bulky frame shifted and thick arms crossed over the pristine white shirtfront as the man tipped his face up. Features twisting in a scowl that deepened as Athos remained impassive.

"Need I remind you that I am a General and as such not answerable to a soldier who thinks himself important because he had secured a position that is the limit of his reach?" he smirked and sat forward again, "I will send out as many men as I deem fit for whatever assignment that I chose for them,"

"And was that somehow connected to the burned down village?"

"That is none of your concern Captain," he said, "You're dismissed,"

He turned on his heels lest he gave in to the temptation and haul the man over his desk for answers. He had noticed a trickling loss of men from the General's command, of men leaving but not returning and had written to the Minister of the problem. Athos silently urged the answer that was on its way to him to hasten as he pushed aside the flap and stepped out into the evening that was surrendering to the night rather quickly. He made his way to where Porthos and d'Artagnan stood talking, the chill that the mountain air carried nipped at his face and reminded him of another journey in the cold to a frozen forest far in the north, that he was now again staring down at another cart full of dead soldiers was not lost on him.

"Gentlemen,"

"He told you what they were doing out there?" Porthos asked.

"Scouting,"

" 'n you believe him?"

Athos raised a brow, not sure if his brother had meant to insult him and found his own lips twitch up slightly when Porthos gave him a knowing grin.

"I bet he had no idea they were there," said the big man, "they must have snuck out that's why they were without their horses,"

Athos glanced down at the corpses and bit back a sigh; there were enough deaths in their ranks without the men going out to court more. He looked up when d'Artagnan held up a palm full of coins and a few trinkets of thin gold jewelry.

"We found this on them," he said, voice steeped in disgust, "they looted those villagers."

"And died for it,"

"That's what I don't understand," d'Artagnan clenched the meager plunder and shook his closed fist slightly, "why didn't the people who killed them take this, why murder them if not for their share of the raid."

"It's not much," Porthos shrugged.

"Then why shoot them down?" Athos voiced the question he knew all three of them were thinking.

"What if," d'Artagnan looked down at the items in his hand, "what if this is not what they'd come for. What if they were looking for information?"

Athos could feel his blood run cold at the thought. Spies in any instance were a dangerous occurrence but now, when they were about to enter the narrow winding trails among the mountains it could end in a disaster. Pulling his gaze away from where it had settled over the dark peaks cutting into the evening sky he turned to their youngest.

"Are you certain it was a campsite you found?"

"They had tried to clear it away but it was a hasty job," he said, "I think I surprised them in the middle of it,"

"If his men were selling information," Porthos lowered his voice, "does that mean the General knows?"

Athos looked back at the General's tent and tried not to let his bias against the man's personality cloud his judgment. He could not make accusations based on assumptions alone but as his gaze roamed over the horses by the lake and the soldiers setting up fires for the night the weight that his decision would carry for them all nearly took his breath away.

"We wait, he said, "we wait and stay vigilant. If the General is in on it we'll need proof but until then we remain cautious."

* * *

She had woken up in tears, drank the water he held to her lips before falling in an exhausted sleep with her head on his shoulder. That was a few hours ago.

Aramis shifted her to the other side and shook out the arm that had gone numb under the weight; the small warm weight that was pressed into his side with an alarming amount of trust. He had tried to get her to lay down on the bedroll but the near chocking clasp of small arms around his neck crushed any such ideas.

Sitting on his knees he felt through the supplies of his medicine satchel until he picked up a small bottle and tossed it to the man at his side

"This one," he said,

"How can you tell?" Devereux caught the vial and held it close to his face, "They all look the same in this light,"

"Or lack thereof," Aramis nodded.

Night had fallen abruptly and the fact that they were on the mountain slope had only added to the swift descent of the sun from their sight; leaving them with the silver grey glow from the half moon in the sky. Aramis ignored the way his skin pulled at the burn on his hand as he put the items he didn't need back into the satchel.

"It's the smell," he said.

Grinned when he heard the sound of the stopper being pulled out of the bottle and then the exclaim of disgust that followed. Devereux was quick to close the small bottle again and Aramis forced the laugh out of this voice.

"Or you could feel the two notches on top of the cork," he said.

Shook his free hand again, his palm stung fiercely. He heard Devereux move, tracked his shape as the man stood up and his own eyes became adjusted to the darkness.

"You need some of this too,"

"I'll need to clean it first," Aramis said.

Raised the stinging palm close to his eyes and frowned at the half a ring shaped burned there; it hadn't registered when he had grabbed the hot latch of the cellar door. Had only announced its presence once they had reached the second site.

"Need any help with that?"

"After you're done with Mousequeton,"

Devereux nodded towards the lake before he turned to face Aramis.

"Makes you wonder who we're guarding doesn't it?" he asked but didn't wait for an answer, "we could really use a fire this night," he added.

Setting up a cold camp in the chilly night was not ideal but they were camped just a little way away from the lake across which lay the French army camp. Aramis could not risk their fire to be so conveniently visible to them; he shook his head and sat back against the tree.

"No fires," he said.

Waited until the other man had moved on to attend to their injured comrade and smoothed his good hand over the small back in his hold. He had felt the girl stiffen at the mention of fire and wondered if she would ever grow out the fear he could clearly see taking hold on her.

"No more fires tonight," he repeated.

"No fires," she pulled back from him, sat in his lap and dug her knuckles in her eye, "Maman here yet?"

Aramis pulled back the small fist and shook his head slightly. She seemed no more than three years old, nearly four at most and he swallowed back the rock in his throat at what he had to explain to her.

"Maman isn't coming love," he said, "she didn't want to leave you but she had to go –"

"Like Papa?" small fingers picked at the clasp of his cloak, the voice wobbled a little, "gone to heaven not coming back?"

"Yes,"

"I don't want her to,"

The side of her head thumped onto his chest as she brought her knees close under her chin and he wrapped an arm around the child.

"I know,"

"Was I bad?"

"No, no ma chéri, you were not. It is not your fault, she loves you. Would give anything to be with you," Aramis stared down at the round face and realized he had never felt so ill-prepared for anything, "she just had to –" he shook his head and swallowed hard, "it's not your fault, your maman loves you."

The child sniffled and his voice conceded to silence. Words failed him for once in his life and Aramis held the child until the tremors faded from the small body. Puffy eyes looked up at him as a small hand twisted the handful of his shirt that it had fisted.

"I go home?"

It felt like a punch to his gut.

He shook his head, a grimace flashing across his features.

"You can't,"

"Why?"

"It's gone,"

"Where?"

He glanced down at the scrunched nosed confusion and drew his burnt hand through his hair despite the pain it caused him. Not for the first time in the past hour he searched for the right words.

"The men who came to your village, they set fire to the –" he stopped when the child shifted, curled tighter in his lap, "the houses are destroyed, there's no place to stay,"

"I stay with you?"

He stiffened at the words, eyes wide as he looked down at the small girl who had her face pressed into his chest as if in an effort to burrow through the flesh and bones and into his heart. But he couldn't allow that. A shiver went through his bones at the realization that she was asking to stay with him when she didn't even know his name; this innocence frightened him like nothing else ever had before.

Slowly he shifted, carefully picked up the girl and set her at his side, not daring to look into the blue eyes that shone in the pale moonlight with remnants of recent tears. Aramis stared ahead; focused instead on Mousequeton's indignant yelps as Devereux cleaned his wounds.

"You will not be staying with me,"

Small arms draped around his middle and a round face pressed a stubby nose into his side.

"Why?"

"There's no place for a child in my life,"

"Why?"

He was starting to hate that word and frowned when he realized he had wrapped an arm around the small body burrowing into his side. Aramis sighed; his hold around Marie tightening imperceptibly even as he watched the two young men making his way to them. Planchet sat at his side with a tired huff as Bazin dropped to sit across from him. It had been hours since he had sent them back to break the trail they had left behind.

"They won't be able to track us now," Planchet said.

"We looped back eight times," Bazin grinned, "There were no more ways we could make them go in circles,"

Aramis shook his head as he watched the pale light of the moon glint over the lake beyond. The sparse trees growing too far apart were a flimsy cover and in the light of the day it would not be enough. And he had a feeling d'Artagnan, or 'the young one' as his companions had taken to call him, would not let the matter of his encounter with the two younger men to rest easily. He would doggedly follow all the tracks until there were no more left and still keep chewing on the problem of the ones who got away.

The angry lad who had charged into their lives years ago flashed in his mind and a smile touched his lips.

"Don't underestimate that one," he said.

Looked from the man before him to the one at his side. It was in the way they were sitting, alert and stiff in a way he knew it was not due to the hours spent in the saddle. His first thoughts were of injury but then he noticed the glances they stole of their surroundings. He rubbed Marie's back as she latched closer and tilted his head to catch Bazin's eye.

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Paw prints," it was Planchet who answered, shifted until his shoulder bumped with Aramis' though his eyes tracked their surroundings, "trails of them all over this slope,"

"Do you think they'll come sniffing my blood?" Mousequeton asked.

And Aramis felt the younger man at his side jump slightly, although the injured man didn't notice as he groaned all the way Devereux lowered him down to the ground. The dark skinned man smirked as he straightened.

"Or come following your whining," he said.

Crouched at Aramis' side and began cleaning the burn on his hand, pointedly ignoring the way Marie scrambled back into Aramis' lap and curled to fit on the opposite side, away from the tall man.

"I'd like to see you shot in the leg –" Mousequeton said.

"–grazed,"

"–and then butchered with rubbing alcohol –"

"–cleaned –"

"You rubbed off the flesh –"

"Gentlemen," Aramis said, head tipping slightly towards the side, "it seems our much needed supplies are here,"

All heads swiveled to watch the two horses, one pulling a cart behind it. Aramis was the first one to get to his feet, a hand going to his pistol even as he made he shifted to cover Marie from sight; the cart was not part of the plan. He waited until one of the riders dismounted and came forwards, hands slightly raised to show they were empty.

"Captain?"

"Why the cart Alois?"

The man in question looked back before rubbing the back of his neck and stepping closer. Aramis didn't shift his grip from his pistol as Kitty stepped down from where she had been driving the cart and came to join them.

"There was a slight change of plans," Alois said, "we were on our way back, riding past the village where my wife lived –"

"It is ashes now," Kitty spoke up, voice steeped in disgust, "Raided in the middle of the day,"

"Did you see who it was?"

"Looked like they were from the army," she shook her head and nodded towards the man at his side "did you know Alois here has a son?"

Aramis looked from the woman to the man who was looking everywhere but at his face.

"Alois?"

"I had to, there's no one left to take care of him,"

Aramis closed his eyes as he understood the implication of that declaration, taking a breath he nodded more to himself than anything. He could not order a father away from his son; he knew the pain of that separation better than anyone.

"You can go and live with him, there's no duty binding you here,"

Alois shook his head.

"That's one thing I cannot do," he said.

"His enemies will find him, his son would never be safe," Kitty explained, she tilted her head to the side before her voice took on an amused edge, "There is something attached to your leg Rene,"

Aramis was well aware of the face pressed into the back of his leg and the hands clutching his breaches.

"Bring your son over," he said, turned to hoist Marie up into his arms, "I think there is somewhere we can find them sanctuary,"

As Devereux, Bazin and Planchet began unloading the supplies the new comers coaxed out the passengers. Aramis looked from the long limbed youth who followed Alois to the girl trailing after Kitty. They seemed to be around fourteen years old with all the bravado of youth in their raised chins and all its fear in their defiant stance.

"This is my son Luc," Alois let the boy ahead of him, "and this is –"

"Rene," Aramis cut him off, "Your father is helping me cross the mountains back to my farm,"

"You're Spanish?"

"Lu –" Alois began.

"From my mother's side,"

"So you're French?" the boy frowned.

"I am,"

"But –"

"Alois you said you had a son," Aramis tilted his head towards the girl, who stepped forwards at the silent question.

"I'm Luc's neighbor," she said, "Adele,"

He refused to acknowledge the shift in his weight back onto his heels that the sudden piercing stab that cut into his breath caused. A mass of red curls and a slab of grey stone in the wall flashed before his eyes.

"She has no relatives to take her in," Kitty said, "I... I couldn't..."

Aramis nodded, he knew that the woman before him had seen what a life of young girl could be with no one to look out for her. He could see the attempt to spare someone the pain that one had suffered themselves but he could not trust his voice to not shake. Swallowing back the tremors in his words he tipped his head towards the child in his arms.

"This is Marie," he said, "Her village was raided as well,"

"Hello Marie," Adele smiled at the girl, "I'm glad you're safe,"

But the child ducked her head Aramis' chin and only dared to look at the girl once they had returned to their spot among the sparse trees. As the others sorted the ammunitions and the food Aramis wondered if he would be able to write a letter in what little light they had, they would have to be away from here before dawn or else risk the French army seeing them.

He was planning what he would write to the Abbot at the monastery in Douai to ask for a safe place for the children to stay when the bread and cheese was passed around. His eyes traveled from the gaps between the trees to the faces around him. There was an odd silence among them like the disbelieving hush over a battlefield after the fight.

"Will the men with fire come here?" Marie asked.

"I saw the soldiers' camp on our way here," Adele said.

"It wasn't them who attacked us," Luc shook his head, "those men were in uniforms but it could be anybody who –"

"You saw them Luc,"

"You cannot let the actions of few reflect on all," Aramis offered lightly, "I can assure you most of the men down there would lay down their lives to keep you safe,"

"They fight for honor and justice," Luc nodded, "and one day I will join their ranks, I'll be a Musketeer,"

The corner of Aramis' lips lifted up.

"Do you think you have what it takes to become one?" he asked.

"What do you know about Musketeers?"

"Oh I've heard stories," he said, "of the three famous Musketeers, the strongest, sharpest, and the most skilled of the regiment."

Bazin moved closer to him, Planchet leaned forward and even Mousequeton shifted a little to be able to listen better. Aramis looked from the younger faces to the older, smirking a little at his audience.

"They were the bravest men to have ever guarded the King," he said, "undefeated and honorable, the criminals shook in their boots when they heard their names."

He paused.

Caught Alois and Devereux staring at him as Kitty for once sat with no throwing dagger in her hands.

"What were their names?" Adele asked.

Aramis leaned closer, voice lowered to a whisper.

" _So, at the end of it all, what do we have? No glory,"_

"There was Porthos,"

" _Puh! No money."_

"There was d'Artagnan,"

" _No love."_

The grin on his face bloomed from a place he had assumed long frozen in his heart.

" _None of the things that make life bearable,"_

"And there was Athos"

" _We have honour,"_

"And rumors say that Porthos was a giant, as tall as the tallest tree with the strength to lift a horse on each shoulder..."

" _For honour then,"_

He smiled, leaned back as the words sank in the minds of his audience and he let his head rest against the tree bark. Far across the lake, in the camp beyond the fires had been lit and he wondered if his brothers were gathered around one such fire. Saw their faces in his eyes where the dear features would never fade and for the first time since he had left them he remembered Porthos' grin, d'Artagnan's smile and that shy upturn of Athos' lips. For once he saw no disappointment in their eyes as he told of their adventures, brave and grand where every move held a flourish enough to create legends. He wove the stories in the cold night when they couldn't light a fire and tucked them around the young minds that were losing faith in their protectors and the old ones questioning those they guarded. He drew warmth from the memories of his past and offered it to those of uncertain futures.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who reads, favorites, follows and reviews this story. Thank you guest reviewers Jmp, Debbie and Clara!**

 **Sorry for the delay in this one, time's been showing me just how fast it can go.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you Undertheoaktrees, Debbie, Greenlips24, Jmp, pallysdeeks, Thimble, Musketeer Adventure, lizzard1969, MJVictoria, Bakkie, enjoyedit, Aednant the Fourteenth, the-loststone, Guest and Greenfern for leaving me your kind words. Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and I know my recent lack of response may not make it seem believable but your reviews are very, very much appreciated, thankyou!. THANK YOU Christina for dropping me a PM, it was great to know that the story still had readers out here, thank you! And a HUGE THANK YOU Jen! you have been a source of motivation for these past months and are the reason I have again started posting without waiting for this story to get completely written down.**

 **And yes there are many excuses I could give for the delay but really what I owe the readers of this story is an apology. So I'm sorry it is taking me so long to get these stories done. I will not abandon them, I can't leave a work unfinished it just irritates me too much. It may take me long but I will see it end. Saying that, the next two chapters are done, so the updates will likely be quicker. After that, maybe I'll get the next chapters done in time but I can't promise that, they run away from me and turn into these giants I can't control.**

 **So thank you all the readers for your patience.**

* * *

The silver gray light had cast the world into dark and darker shades, the cold that had long seeped into his bones still pricked onto half his face that was exposed. It was a chill that promised harsher temperature to come as they would move up towards the mountain pass. Aramis settled another new map he had copied out, this time for the party leaving with the young ones and marked their point of meeting on all the three maps he had before him. It was a point some ten lieues from the Spanish stronghold.

Folding the papers once the ink dried had up he placed them in the satchel at his side, eyed the supplies he had divided up three ways before he got to his feet, silent despite the various small weapons hidden on his person that he hardly discarded even at rest. Quietly he reached for his musket and the sword belt; looped the strap of one on his shoulder and moving a few steps away from the sleeping children he buckled the other as he went.

It was a habit he had picked up in these past years because sleep was a fickle mistress that often left him alone and ensnared him only to bestow nightmares of past and future. So in those long hours set aside for slumber he had taken to make rounds of their camp no matter who was on watch at the time. Letting the weight of his cloak settle against him as he walked Aramis pulled up the hood to warm his numbed ears and dug the toes of his boots in the earth that sloped gently under him.

He went down the trail and was coming back upwards along the rough route he had drawn in his mind when he stopped short at the distant figure making his way towards him. His hand rested on the hilt of his rapier even if he recognized the gait from the distance. Glancing at the sleeping lumps dotting the ground among the sparse trees he looked back to the man who had stopped a few feet away from him.

Aramis pulled down the scarf that covered the lower half of his face and pushed back the hood. It was enough for the figure in the distance to approach him.

"Should have known it was you when I didn't find you sitting among them," Alois said.

"All clear?" Aramis asked.

"All clear," the man nodded.

He fell in step with him as Aramis resumed his trek up and around their small camp. His eyes scanning the surroundings as the wider distance among the trees gave him a clearer line of sight. At least what was lack of cover for them was also a lack of hiding space for the enemy coming their way. Not like it had been in another forest, in another time where the shadows from the thicket had sprung upon them like crows alighting on corpses.

"The point of dividing the watch is so that everyone gets some rest," Alois said.

Aramis glanced at him but said nothing.

He was in no mood to explain how the feel of hard packed cold earth under him reminded him of the training exercise that had turned into a massacre. Didn't wish to dwell upon how the chill around them insisted on pulling him back to that place even in the waking hours. Or how in the white forest of his mind the blue tinged faces of long lost friends shifted into those he was trying to protect.

"I suppose asking you to rest would be too much," Alois said.

Aramis stopped in his tracks and turning to the man he quirked a brow, wondering where this was coming from.

"We've all noticed it," Alois shrugged, "you hardly sleep for one full hour at a time,"

Aramis looked up to the sky that was not as deep blue, the glow of the moon had fused and watered down the color, its own shine losing as the expanse above became lighter. He looked back at the lake that had become more defined and knew that the camp beyond that would soon be coming awake.

"I get all the sleep I need," he said.

"In bits and pieces,"

"Why are we discussing my sleeping habits?"

"Because you haven't slept more than an hour at most in this night and," Alois nodded towards the sky, "we will be heading out soon,"

"You're right," Aramis said, "we need to move out. Why don't you prepare the wagon and I'll wake them up?"

He walked away before the other man could form a reply, not wanting the scrutiny into what he could not explain. Making his way to the cold camp he started with Devereux, the easiest to rouse and left the children to sleep until the last. The young tired faces blinked up at him in confusion and Aramis waited quietly with each until the realization settled in their eyes; and he carefully pushed back his own anger at the injustice of such an awareness finding home in gazes where there should be innocence and wonder.

After a breakfast of bread and cheese Kitty and Devereux were the first to depart. Aramis handed the new map he had copied to Alois as well as the letter to the Abbot and one for Madame Pascal to replenish their food.

"Take Planchet and Bazin with you," he said.

"You're sending us away?" Bazin asked.

And Aramis nearly winced at how young that sounded.

"There are three children; I need a guard a piece."

That was only half the reason and by the look on the faces of the younger men it seemed that they knew it as well. Aramis met the narrow eyed look of rebellion with all the patience he could muster even as he refused to back down. He could always remind them that his words were orders and final at that; but he had been in that position once, he knew what it felt like to be ordered back from where the horrors lurked and how much it stung to be forced to do so. And yet he could not pass up a perfect opportunity to save his two charges a possible encounter with the wolves they feared so much. While he could send Mousequeton with Alois and the children, leaving three to watch over the Musketeer regiment as was the sensible thing to do; Aramis still refused to drag along the younger men into their nightmare if he could spare them.

Planchet and Bazin shared a glance before they offered a sharp nod in unison. And Aramis turned to their youngest lot. Reached out to pick up Marie when she raised her arms towards him from where she had sleepily attached herself to Adele's side.

"Going home?" she asked.

"To a new one," Aramis told her.

He walked to the back of the wagon with the little one in his arms and once the older children were settled in he made to set Marie down. The arms around his neck tightened and little legs scrambled to grab on to his middle. Aramis rubbed the small back in an attempt to coax himself free.

"You'll be safe there cheri," he murmured.

" 'r you coming?"

"I can't love,"

"No,"

"Marie,"

"No, no you come too," and she held on that much tighter.

For such a small body Aramis was surprised by the fierce strength with which it clung to him. He glanced at the four men watching him and at his look they stepped back slightly, arms raised slightly at their sides in a clear signal that he was on his own in this. He tried to gently pry her off of him but stopped when he felt the sob against his shoulder.

"I stay,"

"I told you last night that you can't stay with me remember?"

"Then you come,"

"I have work to do cheri, I can't come with you,"

"Then I stay,"

The small wet face pressed back into his shoulder.

Stroking a hand through the golden curls Aramis shifted a little so that he could meet the wide blue eyes. A small hand shifted to clutch at his shirtfront as the little girl shook her head slowly, effectively wiping her nose on his shoulder. Even in the pale light he could see the tear tracks on the round cheeks and Aramis felt something clench in his chest at the sight.

"I need you to go with them mi tesoro. I need you to be safe," he said, "I need you to be happy and healthy and grow up big and strong into a fine young woman,"

"Big like Porthos?" she asked.

"Exactly," he nodded.

She hiccupped and her lip wobbled again.

"You not coming?"

He pressed his lips to her forehead and muttered out a no. It only made her cry harder and as he set her down next to Adele the sobs turned into a storm. He had lost both of the children he had fathered, his own flesh and blood, one to death and one to life and standing there watching the little girl stand up in the wagon to reach for him fanned that knifing pain of loss all over again.

Holding on to a breath that threatened to pierce through the heart he no longer believed he had Aramis forced himself to step back slightly; jaw clenched behind the otherwise calm lines of his face. He was grateful when Adele wrapped her arms around Marie and pulled her close instead. It was Luc who crouched down at their side and whispered something to the little girl. The wet blue eyes sought out Aramis but Marie made no more move to reach for him.

"Will you?" she asked.

Aramis looked to boy.

"Promise her you'll come to meet her when you can," Luc said.

And Aramis was sure he could not offer her even that, he wasn't even sure he would survive that long with what they were stuck in. But Alois had told Luc that Aramis was a farmer and he could not now go into an explanation of what exactly he was; a mercenary.

"I'll come to meet you if I'm able to," he said at last, "you have my word,"

And he was glad that the little one paid no attention to the wording and ignored the glares he was receiving from the older children. Aramis stepped away from the wagon as Alois settled in the driver's seat and Bazin and Planchet guided their horses into position.

The dawn was still a little ways away as the small party moved down the gentle slope. As they disappeared around the curve of the mountain Aramis turned to Mousequeton. The man settled a musket at his back and limped forwards with their horses.

"Just the two of us then," the older man nodded at him.

* * *

The letters arrived at the break of dawn.

He met the soldier at the edge of their camp and going through the missives picked out the one he had been waiting for. Broke the seal and unfolded the paper even as he walked back to his tent. Skimming over the Minister's writing he reached the point that was the answer to his inquiries and felt his gut tighten in a knot. Athos stopped just outside the entrance to his makeshift office and felt the paper wrinkle where his grasp tightened.

He looked up at the sound of familiar footfalls.

Porthos raised a brow and with a tilt of his head Athos gestured for him to follow.

"No good news then?" Porthos asked.

Rounding the Captain's desk Athos dropped in his chair and tossed the letters onto the table before him. The old itch for the taste of wine burned in his mouth and he cleared his throat.

"At least now we know why General Pierre's men are not in his control," he said.

And looked past Porthos as the Musketeer too turned around at the sound of the new arrival. D'Artagnan stopped at the entrance of the tent before he shrugged a shoulder and walked up to stand beside Porthos. He eyed the pile of letters on the Captain's desk and Athos hid a smile at the flash of anticipation in the dark eyes that met his.

"So you got your answers?" d'Artagnan asked.

Amusement fled at that question and Athos sat forwards, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he nodded at his friends to take a seat. He picked up the Minister's letter and laid it out on the desk between them, tapping it with a finger he looked to the men he trusted the most.

"It seems soldiers are now a depleting resource," he said, "Most of the men in General Pierre's battalion are convicts sent out to serve a term on the frontlines in return for their sentences to be suspended,"

Porthos' brows pulled together in a frown.

"That explains the looting," he muttered.

"And the reason they don't get along well outside of their groups," d'Artagnan nodded.

But it was so much worse than that, Athos could see trouble simmering under the surface and knew that the manner in which General Pierre was covering up for his men was only hastening the inevitable. These men were a trail of gunpowder in their midst that was simply awaiting a spark.

"That is my concern," he told the two before him, "These convicts hold no fealty to the French crown or to their brother in arms. If they are men without honour what is there to stop them from accepting a bribe?"

Porthos let go a few grumbling expletives.

"For the right price they could spy on us for the enemy," d'Artagnan grimaced.

Athos looked from their youngest to one of his oldest friends, saw the understanding in the bigger Musketeer's eyes and knew that he at least was aware of how much worse it could get. Athos looked back to d'Artagnan.

"They could disrupt the ranks from within," he said, "stab us in the back during battle,"

Athos saw the realization dawn on his young friend and felt pride stir in him at the sudden straightening in the shoulders before him; at the steady gaze that met his with far more conviction in the stretch of his abilities than he had in himself.

"What do you want us to do?" d'Artagnan asked.

Simple though the question was the trust it displayed caught Athos' breath in his chest. It made what he had to ask next even more difficult to voice. Because it would not be easy and while he could recruit some more trustworthy men from the Musketeers regiment Athos knew that most of the weight of the coming task would fall on these two. And yet looking from one brother to the next he knew that they would not begrudge him that.

"I will do my best in my position to keep a watch on their activities but you two will be my eyes and ears among the men out there. I need you to keep an eye on where the men from General Pierre's battalion go; whether it's for an assignment from the General or not. If they are on watch one of you watches them, if they scout ahead one of you follows."

"I can let slip among them about my past," Porthos said.

"You don't have to –"

"Everyone in our regiment knows where I'm from and I'm not ashamed of my beginnings Athos,"

A smile touched his lips and Athos tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"Nor should you be," he said, "but I was I going to say you don't have to deliberately court danger from within our army while there is already enough outside of it. We don't know how they will take to what you tell them."

Because those men were already divided into groups, Athos didn't want his friend getting in the middle of whatever power struggle that was going on among the men the General was finding so difficult to command. He watched the big man consider his words before the broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

"If they think I'm sympathetic to their way of living they might drop a hint about their plans," Porthos said.

It was a good plan and the Captain in him wanted the chance to know of the trouble before it erupted; there were lives at stake as well as the tide of war. An enemy from within and without was not something they could hope to win from unless they had some information to go about handling it. But Athos, the man who saw these two as brothers hesitated.

"It's decided then," Porthos nodded, took the decision off from his hands and got to his feet, "Now there're supply wagons waiting to get checked by me before this camp is broken to move along."

"Porthos," Athos looked up at him.

His brother met his gaze and he could read the acknowledgement there, could tell that his friend was aware of his gratitude and his fears for what the man had offered to do. The dark eyes softened and something that may have been a smile flitted over the big man's face like a darting shadow, gone before it was completely there.

With a sharp nod Porthos turned and left.

Athos pulled his gaze back to the younger man before him. Watched the eyes that flicked up to look at him from where they had been staring at the letters on the desk. Athos sat back, deliberately slow in his movements as he picked out the one letter that was lying at the bottom of the pile. Felt something like fondness bloom in his chest as the young face before him brightened.

"Is that –?"

"It is," Athos said.

And handed the letter to d'Artagnan, ignoring the way the eager hand shook as it reached to take the words his wife had sent him. He watched as his friend took to his feet without a word or dismissal and hurried towards the tent flap.

"We're breaking camp d'Artagnan," Athos called after the man, "don't forget breakfast,"

But the absent minded nodding told him that his words were lost in the cold air. Athos stood to clear his desk and resolved to have something edible in hand to offer to his young friend who would certainly miss the morning food rations.

* * *

The days had rolled into a single expanse of white earth and silver skies.

The air was like wisps of cold shredded thread that burned up his nose as Aramis breathed through the coarse scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Flurries like cold ash prickled his skin and stuck to his eyebrows and clung to his eyelashes, the only features visible on his face between the hood and the scarf. His horse plodded along through the snow, leaving damning evidence in the pristine white. Glancing back at the trail Aramis was almost glad that there were only two men left to watch over the army.

His gaze traveled to the distant banners below as he pulled his horse to a stop. They would wait there until the army was near enough before moving on to snuff out any threats that may lie ahead. And just like that two pair of eyes was simply not enough for this.

Aramis grimaced as his mind went from the slowly progressing mass to the groups of three and four riders that would ride on ahead and returned back to the command with reports of their scouting. He was keeping count of the riders that broke away and those who returned and yet he knew if there was an ambush Mousequeton and him would not be enough of a help to their charges.

Pulling in a sharp breath Aramis closed his eyes against the phantom splash of warm blood on numbing skin and the echo of dying screams in a frozen forest.

"I hate snow," said the voice at his side.

Brushing a hand over his eyes he opened them to look at the man who had pulled his horse beside him.

"Nothing new to report then?" Aramis asked.

"Nothing odd on the way here," Mousequeton said.

Aramis nodded as he turned back to the army that was almost below them before he glanced up and looked across to the steep slope on its other side; one that was gentle towards the bottom and dotted with trees but the incline turning sheer the higher it went, much like the slope he was on. If he had men to spare they would be guarding that side.

"I meant nothing new to report about your hate for the cold," he smirked under the scarf.

He had been listening to the man cursing the weather for the past six days. Not that there was anything he didn't agree with. Aramis wiped away the flakes of snow from his eyes again and watched the riders below.

"Oh no I do hate the cold and this damn wind shoving it in my face. But snow," Mousequeton's voice was laced in disgust, "snow is just cruel,"

Making sure that the same amount of riders had returned to the army as the number that had left them some lieues back Aramis pulled his gaze away to look at his companion. The man's natural scowling disposition was hidden under the layers of scarf and the shadow that his hood cast, but there was hint of something else in the gaze roaming over the trail before them, something that almost looked like remorse buried under the layers of loathing in his hard eyes.

A wolf howled long and low somewhere below them and Aramis looked away. The wind carried the sound nearer and trailed gooseflesh on his skin.

"Some might call snow beautiful," he said.

And once upon a time so had he.

"It's too white," Mousequeton bit out.

The venom in his tone snipped the air and Aramis raised a brow. He knew there was a story there but he was sure it was not his place to ask. In all the time he had spent with this group the secrets shared had been done willingly, he could not find in him to demand answers when he had so few to offer himself. He looked back at the army that was thinning into fewer lines as the passage narrowed gradually and frowned at the three riders that broke away from somewhere in the back of the procession. His frown deepened when a few minutes later another followed and Aramis glanced back at the head of the army; he knew they couldn't be sending out scouts this soon after the return of the previous riders.

"Spies?" Mousequeton asked from beside him.

"Likely,"

"Our trail,"

Aramis looked up at the sky then back at the way they had come. While sun down was still hours away, the wind that had gradually picked up since the night before was sifting the powdery white in curling sweeps even as more white flecks thickened the air. He considered the time and distance of the three coming up the slope and nodded.

"It'll be covered by then," he said.

Mousequeton nodded at the army before motioning over his shoulder.

"We follow or we wait?"

Aramis looked up at the slope they were on, the nearer they were to the top the more time it would take for him to respond to any trouble with the army below. He would need the telescope in his bag just to keep an eye on them. And yet he knew if it were spies that were coming up behind them they would choose the higher paths to avoid alert eyes; going up would be the most assured way to confront them. Wiping away the melting white flecks from the strip of his face that was visible Aramis considered his options. The path ahead was thinning until it disappeared with a ridge to one side and the incline on the other.

"We stay the course," he said.

And hoped that way they could keep an eye on both sides. As much as he wanted to be the one catching these spies he could not leave the army in his charge exposed. With just the two of them left for this task he had to trust Devereux and Kitty to intercept these traitors and gather what details they could from them. Aramis held on to the solace that these spies were at least taking the route he had expected them to and that way awaited his people.

"We could be seen," Mousequeton said.

Aramis brushed a hand over his knee where loose snow had gathered. He knew that summers would raise the chances of snow-slides and with the fort already battling the constraints of winter it was a good time to lay siege, still he cursed the Minister for choosing the season for this march to the fort.

"If the wind and snow keeps up it will be able to cover most of our presence," he said.

Mousequeton looked at the army passing below.

"Snow and cold, the perfect weapons to surprise your enemy," he said.

And a shiver trickled down Aramis' spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

* * *

It had taken days of suspicious glares and snide comments.

Hours of fake camaraderie and many hands of cards, won just enough times to prove that he could cheat with the best of them and yet lost enough times to sooth blistered tempers. Porthos offered a grim up turn of his lips to the man at his side and tried not to look too interested in the furtive glances he was sending over his shoulder. Instead he looked ahead, glanced at the sparse trees that dotted the slope leading into the valley and wiped the flecks of white that the wind scattered onto his face.

"We need to camp soon," he said.

And stopped with his hand still on his beard even as his eyes widened imperceptibly, the need that had prompted his words ringing hollow within him. Because the need wasn't the there anymore, the man he sought to protect from the cold and the snow and the haunting memories it brought wasn't there at his side; hadn't been for years.

"I don't think the Captains feel that way," Aymeric spoke from his side, "they don't really care for the men they're dragging through this frozen hell."

Porthos blinked back from the thought of the man he sought to forget and reined in his temper. He had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at the man at his side that Athos did care about the men under his command; that the man cared too damn much.

"One of the many reason's I'm riding with you lot," he said.

"I bet the Musketeers aren't happy about it,"

"I'll stand with them in the battlefield when the time comes, but I can ride there from where I please," Porthos shrugged a shoulder, "Like you said, Captain's don't care for us unless there's the enemy army to face,"

Aymeric looked over his shoulder again and Porthos watched him from the corner of his eye.

"They're leading us to slaughter," Ayemric muttered.

Porthos gave him an amused look, hiding the sharpening attention underneath. While they knew that General Pierre's men were up to something, he had chosen Aymeric's group because he had a feeling that this was where the tremors were coming from and Porthos planned to get to the center of the ripples before they turned too damaging.

"War brings death," he said.

"And sometimes we march into the jaws of death and don't even know where we are until it clamps down," Aymeric looked back before meeting his eyes, a slow grin curling on his face, "you need someone to watch your back for that,"

A wolf howled somewhere in the cold and Porthos grit his teeth behind his smile. He had walked into so many traps, stepped into the jaws of death time and again because he had been sure of the man behind a musket keeping an eye on him. He knew perfectly well what it felt like to have someone watching your back and was painfully aware how it felt like to have that safety ripped away.

"That kind of attitude can make you weak," he said, voice coming out harsher than he had intended, "the way I grew up you've got to watch out for yourself,"

And he had done just that until someone had ruined his habit; made him let go of a time honed belief only to turn away from him and confirm it. Porthos glanced aside when Aymeric chuckled, dark eyes meeting his own as the man nodded. He glanced back one more time and this time Porthos followed his line of sight. Peered through the snow flecked air as he watched the soldiers adjust to the narrowing of the path they were on. And there, near the end of their procession he was sure he had seen some riders break off from the ranks.

Porthos turned to look ahead before Aymeric could catch him watching. Wiping a gloved hand down his face to clear away the snow and the frown he stamped down the desire to demand answers from the man at his side. Not now Porthos had to remind himself, but he was itching for the time of questioning when it came.

"I can't believe they expect us to march on in this snow," he said.

Aymeric's grin was wide.

"They'll be stopping soon enough don't you worry," he said.

And Porthos felt something sink in his stomach. Even as he grinned at the man at his side his eyes sought for a face he could trust. He needed to get the message to Athos, he had to warn him of the danger he was sure lay ahead of them. He looked to the front again, something loosening in his breath at the sight of d'Artagnan guiding his horse through ranks to reach him. Even from the distance he could see the younger man frown at Aymeric and Porthos rolled his eyes in a show of annoyance.

"It seems the Captain's pet wants to talk to me," he said.

And urged his horse to ride nearer to d'Artagnan's; pulled the animal to a stop even as the army moved ahead around them like a river of metal. Making sure to keep his voice low he shifted slightly in the saddle even as he kept a watch on Aymeric from the corner of his eye.

"It's happening," Porthos said.

"What?"

"Two riders slipped off," Porthos said, "Athos needs to know,"

"You do that, warn him of the danger ahead," d'Artagnan said, "he's called for you,"

Porthos glanced at the young face before him and found it set in determination that was enough to tighten his gut into a knot of worry. He was about to warn his friend off of the decision he could see in his face but the dark eyes than met his stopped him. There was anger there that hadn't been soothed since he had witnessed the aftermath of the looting nearly a week ago and there was resolve there too; but Porthos was surprised to find it was not the reckless stubbornness of youth that backed it instead there was the grim pride of a soldier seeking to put an end to injustice.

He looked away.

Felt the younger man pat his arm once before they rode off in opposite directions.

* * *

The snow was not the problem.

It was the wind.

And the incline that turned sharper as they climbed higher up the mountain.

D'Artagnan squinted against the powdery white blowing into his face, stinging on his skin and dampening his hair. The wind whistled past his ears and drowned out the world as he guided his horse further and further up onto the mountain slope. He could make out the blur of the riders ahead and urged his own unsure animal to close the distance between them, hoping that the howling wind would drown out the sound of his approach.

His horse tossed its head and d'Artagnan slowed down slightly, eyes never leaving his target even as they threatened to gradually shrink away from his blurred view. The abrupt climb had left him feeling just a touch unsteady and his thinned breath stuck to his throat, ripping out a dry cough. Pressing a hand to his chest he felt the crackle of worn paper in the small leather pouch tucked beyond the metal of his armour and the leather beneath it.

D'Artagnan smiled.

He had memorized every precious word put on the too few papers that had reached him over the years and even as he sat on a horse that was knee deep in snow, the yellowing pages placed close to his heart warmed him. Blazed bright like pieces of sunlight in the shadow of death that haunted his days.

" _You deserve more lavish surroundings for your honeymoon. Most men would have taken their bride to some rural idyll –"_

" _I didn't marry most men. I married a Musketeer."_

Closing his eyes for a breath he savored the ghost of her kiss, lips pulling up in a smile as he drew strength from the thought of the bravest woman he had ever known; marveled at his luck that allowed him to call her his wife. As his heartbeat steadied d'Artagnan opened his eyes and looked to the ascending riders ahead, leaned forwards on his horse to get a better view. His smile melted away as he concentrated on the men who had started to dismount; the dull silver of their armour smearing their movements in the wind and snow.

D'Artagnan pulled out his pistol and swung off his horse, knees buckling slightly as the snow and the tilt of the land distorted his balance. Leaving the animal behind he plodded through the cold white, head bent a little as he pushed against the rolling drafts moving down the sheer slope. His free hand came to rest on the hilt of the sword at his side, the chilled metal a surprise to his exposed skin. And for the first time he wished he had at least stopped to don his cloak and gloves before chasing after these men.

A flicker of movement caught in the corner of his eye pulled his gaze up to his side.

Light gleamed on metal and he stepped back.

The blade swiping at him grazed his cheek and d'Artagnan pulled out his own sword, shifting his weight to the front foot he met the enemy's blade with his own. Blocked the attack and stopped the dagger headed for his gut with his pistol. The stinging wet trail on his face numbed quickly in the cold and even as he pushed back the man snarling too close to his face, he realized Porthos had miscalculated.

There were more than two men out of the ranks.

"You are too far away from your friends Musketeer," the soldier grinned.

D'Artagnan raised his pistol, ignored the mist of his shallow breaths and the way the cold air dried his throat.

"I don't need them to handle the likes of you,"

The other man grinned wider, his pistol aimed for the younger man's head.

"Good," he said, "Because soon not many will be left,"

Two shots fired.

One man fell.

Ignoring the sticky warmth that spilled down to his hand d'Artagnan placed the pistol in his belt and trudged ahead. Went to the man who lay on his back where a pool of blood was growing under him, smearing onto the white as he writhed in agony, one hand clutching uselessly at the hole in his thigh. Bringing down his sword the Musketeer put the man out of his misery and breathing heavily looked up at the moving figures beyond. His arm throbbed where the metal ball had nicked him but something in his gut urged him to hurry, told him that there was no time to spare.

He focused instead onto the dark misshapen lump ahead and nearly lost his footing when a man suddenly appeared before him. Biting back a grunt as his knee gave under him d'Artagnan brought his blade up just in time to stop the one that suddenly arched towards him. The wind hadn't covered the sound of his approach as well as he had hoped and the dark eyes that met his promised vengeance for daring to come out after these men.

Blade met blade in an arching swing, clashed and slid along the edges in a battle of wills. The knee to the gut left him staggering back and d'Artagnan dropped back down to a knee, dug the point of his sword in the snow to not fall all the way down

"Come on, come on," another man appeared and grabbed at his assailant, "We don't have time for this Edgard. We need to leave now."

There was a strangely familiar smell in the air and d'Artagnan frowned as he tried to place it in his memory even as he took to his feet, lunged at the enemy who was pulled back by the other one. Edgard used the momentum of his retreat to land another hit to the front of d'Artagnan's armour. The harsh clang of the metal reverberated all the way to his bones as he fell. Gasping for the breath it knocked out from him d'Artagnan rolled to his side and onto his knees.

Another kick and he landed on his back.

The edges of his vision darkened, a prickly feeling trailed over his skin as he struggled to pull in a breath that was just not enough. The world tilted slightly as a hand lifted him by the rim of his armour and a sneer blinked into his sight.

"Looks like you're a lucky one," Edgard smirked, "the only Musketeer who just might survive this day,"

He blinked as the world moved around him and it took him a few seconds to realize that he was the one being dragged across the snow covered earth. D'Artagnan raised his head, grabbed the hand that held him but then he was falling. Eyes opened wide as the rush of empty air at his back ended with a hard thump. There was no sky above him, just an everlasting torrent of white flakes that clung to his lips as he tried to breathe and thickened the air until there was nothing left for him to draw in.

He wondered if that was how Bonacieux had felt at his last.

" _This is on your conscience. You and Constance, you'll never be happy together. You're damned. I curse you both."_

Sucking in a deep breath d'Artagnan rolled onto his side, coughing hard even as he tried to shake off the dark spots that flickered before his eyes. Slowly he took to his feet, biting back a groan as a sharp pain stabbed the side of his chest and nearly doubled him over. He was in a crude pit; d'Artagnan leaned against the wall of snow and waited for the pain to recede. The hollow was not too deep; the edge of the snow coming halfway up his chest and d'Artagnan frowned when he saw the flash somewhere ahead of him, hot and bright and flaring even in this cold.

Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the flickering glare he watched the spark trailing closer. It was gunpowder; that was the smell that had reached him before. His eyes flicked from the ditch he was in to the pile of small kegs in the distance that he had seen as a lump before. And beyond that was the long rope rubbed with gunpowder that was flaring towards the kegs. And d'Artagnan suddenly knew.

He understood the plan.

The toes of his boots scrambled against the snow wall as his gloved fingers dug into the white surface. Ignoring the pull to his bruised chest d'Artagnan struggled to heave himself out of the hollow. He had to get out, he had to get out and stop that flame from reaching those kegs. Cursing under his breath he threw away the chunks of snow that he had fisted and dug his fingers deeper, strained to haul himself out, shut out the screaming protest of his bruises and the burning wound in his arm as he stretched onto the crumbling snow edge and scrabbled for a foot hole.

With a cry of pain he pulled back, curled forwards and breathed.

His side hurt.

"Think, think," forcing himself straight he looked to the kegs again, "think;"

His gaze fell to the dark smudges on floor of the hollow and he looked back up at the kegs in the distance. They had placed those kegs of gunpowder in this ditch before they had changed location. Edgard and his partner were triggering a snow-slide but they had changed the position of the kegs.

D'Artagnan looked to the way he had come and in the whirl of snow and wind imagined the French army below. It dawned on him then, his eyes widening as he realized that it was all about timing. The placing of the explosion, the length of the gun-powder rubbed rope as it burned down, it was all about timing the snow-slide to hit the army as it passed below.

A distant night and narrow wedge in a street of Paris flashed before his eyes, the blue-green eyes of a woman he had imagined to love came to mind.

" _You're at the crossroads, d'Artagnan. Don't take the wrong path. Choose the Musketeers and you choose oblivion."_

Shehad warned him too late he mused.

And pulled out his pistol.

He had already chosen the Musketeers by then d'Artagnan realized as he loaded his weapon.

With his other hand reached for the small leather pouch he kept close to his heart, pulled it out in a white knuckled grip.

With his other he steadied his weapon and took aim.

If he could not stop this snow-slide he would trigger it early. Edgard had been wrong; he just might be the only Musketeer to die that day. D'Artagnan knew he was in the path of destruction to come but if it was a choice between his life to be saved and his brothers' the answer was simple.

The sound of his shot was drowned out by the explosion.

The roar of the blast was masked by the rumble.

"I'm sorry Constance," d'Artagnan whispered.

And the earth shifted.

* * *

 **TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

It was muffled by the wind.

Aramis' eyes narrowed as he looked up.

Searched for the source of the pistol shot in what little he could see of the slope beyond the ridge line. The crest was well above his head and his elbows grazed the snowy wall at his side as he turned around in the saddle to look to his companion. Mousequeton was cursing up a storm of his own and trying to sooth his horse as it protested the abrupt halt on the tapered path.

"I'm going to check that," Aramis called over the wind.

"You'd never find anything in this blasted weather!"

Aramis dismounted and adjusted the musket at his back as he coaxed his horse around. Mousequeton scowled but followed his example, muttering obscenities as he went. Ignoring the man who seemed to hate the cold even more than him Aramis hurried back to the point where the paths had split, wondering if he had made a mistake in deciding to let the spies find their way to Kitty and Devereux.

"Stay here," he ordered his companion.

"And how will you find your way back?"

Aramis pulled out the telescope from his saddle bag as an answer and was halfway up by the time the man could voice any other concern. There was an urgency weaving in his breath, a sense of purpose and danger spreading out to the tips of his being that years of camaraderie under fire had honed into a sense all unto itself. It was a sense that told him that he was needed.

It was the only thing pushing him towards where he hoped the pistol shot had come from; there was no way to be precise in the wind and the snow. Aramis stopped with his hands on his knees, bent forwards to catch a breath on the frozen dry air and squeezed his eyes shut as the world suddenly seemed to spin around him. An abrupt sick feeling sloshed in his gut but he stamped it down. Forced himself to straighten and raised the telescope, pressed the cold metal rim to his eye and swept his gaze over the white stretch before him. More snow met his sight, giant flakes sticking to the glass but there, Aramis frowned as he wiped the glass with his hand and looked again.

There it was, unmistakably a flare of sparks ahead of him.

Putting the telescope back in his belt Aramis moved ahead. His clumsy hurry slowing into a halt as the shape ahead of him took form of a person. He stared at the back of the man who seemed to be standing in a hollow in the snow. Pulling out his pistol Aramis took a few steps ahead, careful not to move too fast as he approached the man from behind; the man who seemed to be struggling to pull himself out of the hole in the ground.

His pistol lowered, his steps slowed again.

Straight dark hair that fell past his ears and the familiar lines of the face that gazed off to the side nearly took away what little breath he had. Aramis blinked at having found this young man at this place.

Tucked his weapon back at his side and stared at d'Artagnan as the younger man turned his head, pulled out something from under the armour he wore even as he raised his pistol and fired. The crack in the air jolted him, the boom shook the world and Aramis' eyes widened as a growl went through the earth. He moved without thought, sprinted over the shaking ground even as his boots sank in the snow, instincts taking over as his mind set on d'Artagnan, trap and danger.

And just as the earth moved from under him Aramis' fingers curled into a fist around the edge d'Artagnan's armor. Landing sprawled onto his front he pulled the younger man closer, riding on the flow of the sliding snow he yanked the man out of the ditch and looped an arm across his chest. Ignored the pained yelp as d'Artagnan went limp in his grasp and the tide of snow swept them both down.

Snow.

Soft as ash, sharp as glass and heavy as a boulder.

It was the earth and the sky and everything in between. There was no direction, no escape; there was nothing but the sheer force of the white that drowned him, wave after wave that threatened to crush him as he gasped and sputtered and held on to the young man in his grasp with one arm.

Between a blink and another there was nothing but empty air under him.

And then he was crashing down with d'Artagnan half cradled in his grasp.

Aramis wheezed.

His back twitching against the musket he had landed on when he had hit the ground. The weapon strapped onto his back dug into his flesh as the ripples of the impact shudder out in his body and Aramis stared at the blackness above him. The abrupt stop left his mind wobbling and he reached out his free hand. Fingers trailing over hard snow, packed tight and frozen at an angle. Realizing that it was the ridge wall on one side Aramis shifted slightly and grimaced. The musket under him cut into his back again, the pain of landing on the weapon flaring anew where it dug into flesh.

Rolling onto his side he carefully slid the young Musketeer off of him. Blinked in the darkness even though he knew it wouldn't help him and scooted until he felt the wall of snow at his back. Pressed into it as his hands curled into fists and his jaw clenched against the fear that stirred in his chest.

He hated snow.

Hated the cold surrounding him and the hazy blood splashed dawn it brought before his eyes.

"Not Savoy, this is not Savoy," he whispered to himself.

And thumped his head back against the snow wall, hard. Pulled in a deep breath and held it in. Let himself feel the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders, of the lives he was responsible for and the decisions that had brought him there. Reminded himself that he was not trapped alone, there was another precious life with him that needed him to think clearly.

And Aramis exhaled slowly.

Shifted until he was on his knees and reached out until he felt a shoulder under his hand. Worry spiked at finding d'Artagnan unconscious still but he pushed it back. Crawled until he could reach the other end of the small hollow they were in. Rising onto his knees he felt along the slant in the snow that had walled them in against the ridge and reached for his rapier. Praying that the snow hadn't hardened yet he struck the blade, letting go another breath when it slid in clean; when he pulled it out a thin strip of pale light followed in.

Aramis smiled.

Glanced back at the still form of his friend and tried not to let fear take hold. He turned back when the thin slit filled with loose snow, blocking the wisp of light reaching them and Aramis tried again. Again and again until he heard a curse, the voice part shocked part frightened.

"Are you trying to stab me through the snow Rene?" Mousequeton demanded.

Aramis huffed and let himself fall back on his rear. Rubbed a hand over his eyes and shifted back from the narrow tunnel he had burrowed through.

"You still breathing in there?"

"Yes," Aramis called out.

Patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder in an absent assurance before rubbing his hands together, surprised at the realization that he was shivering. And suddenly he was really, really cold. Tucking his arms around himself he hunched over the unconscious Musketeer, leaned closer until he could feel the breath on his cheek and closed his eyes in a silent prayer of gratitude. In the little light that was coming through in their hollow he could see the pale face, the colorless lips and Aramis blinked back the sudden wetness in his eyes.

If he hadn't heard that pistol shot, if he hadn't gone after it to check – the younger man had started the snow-slide he had seen hat much but he was sure that he hadn't set it up. And if he hadn't been there – Aramis reached out and pressed two fingers against d'Artagnan's neck.

Pulled his hand back and catching the finger tip of his glove between his teeth he pulled it off, let it fall onto his folded knees and tried to feel the pulse again under his fingers. His shoulders sagged when he found it and Aramis let his touch rest there.

Drawing strength from the heartbeat he couldn't bear to find silenced.

Shifting his weight on his knees he pulled his hand away from the younger man's neck and ran his fingers through the limp dark hair in search of a head wound. His frown deepening when he found none. Aramis peered at the slack face that looked haggard even in the dim glow of their confines.

"Well lad, what have you gotten yourself into?" he asked.

Brushed away the loose snow and fumbled with the straps of the armour that the younger man wore. The doublet beneath that was damp but the shirt under it was thankfully dry. Aramis ran a light hand over the ribs, pulling back sharply when d'Artagnan groaned.

He stared at the face with his breath caught in his throat.

Torn between wanting the man awake and alert and terrified at the thought that he would be doing just that.

But d'Artagnan slipped back into oblivion and Aramis felt his breathing start again. He glanced at the small bump under the dark bruise staining the side of the younger man's chest. At least one of the ribs was broken and he wondered if he was the reason behind it, frowned as he recalled hauling the lad out of the ditch and whispered an apology. His fingers reaching again for the reassuring heartbeat slow and steady under the cold skin.

Aramis uncurled the arm from around his middle and took off the glove from that hand as well. Reaching for d'Artagnan's hand he worked through the clumsy movements of putting the glove on it, shaking out his own hand when the numb fingers refused to listen to his orders. By the time he was done pulling on the gloves on the younger man's hands the light had grown around them.

He turned back to watch the gap in the snow that had grown sizably.

"Do you have any idea how damn lucky you are?" Mousequeton grumbled as he dug to widen the tunnel, "You were caught at the edge of it. If you'd been in the middle well then –", he whistled sharply, "Getting caught in the bloody snow-slide? Not one of your better ideas!"

Aramis looked back to the unconscious man by his knee.

"It was worth it," he said.

Mousequeton looked up at him, his hands stilling in their work as the narrow face went blank. The tinge of red that had touched his cheeks from exertion draining visibly as his eyes widened. Aramis blinked back, wondering what had the man looking spooked.

"Mousequeton?"

The older man swallowed thickly.

Lifted a shaky finger and pointed at his face.

Aramis wiped a hand over his jaw and stared at the snow that swept into his hand. He had after all been caught in a snow-slide he reasoned it was to be expected. With a sigh he ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking off more white flakes before his hand stilled.

A hiss dying behind his teeth as a sharp pain stung the side of his head.

Carefully he probed the source on the side of his forehead and looked at his fingertips that came back stained red.

"Must have hit something," he said.

"It's – uh," Mousequeton swallowed hard, "blood's all over your face,"

"Head wounds bleed a lot," Aramis shrugged, "looks much worse than it is,"

He turned back to d'Artagnan and grabbing him from under his arms he dragged the limp form closer to the opening his companion had made. The other man didn't say a word as he helped the unconscious Musketeer out and as Aramis followed, blinking in the light that felt too bright. He didn't miss the way Mousequeton averted his gaze, looking anywhere but at Aramis' bloodied face.

* * *

It came out of nowhere.

Athos pulled the reins of his horse even as he yelled the order to get back. His voice lost in the thundering roar and the shock of men and the whines of animals. His words swept away by the white horror that swooped down on them.

And then silence.

Looking from the last of the few small rocks that rolled down before him, to the settling snow that had piled higher than his head, Athos felt a quiver trail down his spine. On his left and on his right the Musketeers were pulling together into some formation at the edge of the snow-slide. Athos shivered slightly, a few more feet and they would have been buried under it.

"That was too close,"

He looked to the side at Porthos.

The big man was staring ahead, his head shaking slowly as he turned to face him fully. Athos didn't miss the barely concealed fear that flashed in his brother's eyes. Shifting in his saddle he reached out and gripped the arm of the man at his side.

"And yet we're still here, still alive," Athos said.

"Captain?"

Athos turned to Cornett.

"The Generals are asking for you," the Musketeer told him.

Looking back at what could have been the burial of at least half the regiment under his charge Athos nodded. The path ahead was blocked, he had no idea how far this snow-slide had gone and how long was the stretch of rocks and snow dumped in their way. But one thing was clear to him, they would either have to change course or risk more snow-slides if they stayed to their path.

Athos looked up at the mountain and frowned at the wind in his face, at least the snow fall had stopped he thought. The weather made it difficult to judge the time of the day but he was sure there weren't many hours left of what washed out light they had.

"d'Artagnan hasn't returned?" he asked.

Porthos followed his line of sight.

"Not yet," he replied.

"It'll be dark soon,"

"You don't think –" Porthos sucked in a breath.

Wide dark eyes met his own and the horror there had Athos sitting up straighter in the saddle. Denial and fear warred in his chest, tore at his heart and sank their claws into his lungs. Held on tight until his breath stuttered and Athos' lips parted to speak. But words weren't coming forth as the petrifying helplessness froze his mind, sent him back to the dank tunnels under Paris and the escaped prisoner they had been chasing.

" _It's over, Vadim."_

" _Not quite."_

" _Where's d'Artagnan? Is he dead?"_

His head swung back to stare at the mountain. Athos was off of his horse and scrambling up the snow that was still loose under his hasty climb. Boots sinking in the white he waded through, stride long and stumbling as he called out for the man he was not ready to assume dead. The toe of his boot tangled with something under the snow and Athos threw out a hand as he landed on his knees. The tips of his gloved fingers scraped snow as his hand curled into a fist and he took to his feet with a snarl.

"d'Artagnan!"

He couldn't be dead, he couldn't be dead.

"d'Artagnan!"

Not like this, not this way, not him.

"d'Artagnan!"

"Athos? Athos, stop. Listen to me," hands grasped his shoulder and held, dark eyes sought his own but he couldn't – he had to look for the boy, he had to find him.

Large hands cradled his face and a head full of curls ducked to catch his gaze. Athos let go a breath through his nose and closed his eyes. Let himself feel the steady presence before him and finally looked to his friend.

"You with me?" Porthos asked.

He nodded.

"Good," Porthos said, "look we don't even know that he was caught in this. For all we know he may be making his way back to us right now."

Athos swallowed hard, tried to listen to the reason offered, forced himself to not jump to conclusions. Yes if d'Artagnan had been in the path of this snow-slide he would not have survived but there was no proof that he had been caught in it. Athos nodded again, fingers stretching and curling back into fists at his side when they wouldn't stop their shaking.

"You're right," he said.

" 'Course I am," Porthos shrugged a shoulder.

He stepped back but didn't let him go completely. Athos was infinitely grateful for the hand that stayed on his shoulder. Taking strength from the man before him he calmed down the erratic beat of his heart. Worry still gnawed at him, hissed in his mind that their youngest was yet not with them.

Athos stepped out of Porthos' grasp and looked around.

He was standing on the slope of the mountain, the incline smoother for all the snow that had rolled down its side. The Captain was surprised by the amount of area he had covered and glanced down in the absurdly long distance where the rest of the Musketeers were surveying the damage.

"I'm not gonna have to chase after you to the mountain top?" Porthos asked.

"Something tells me that you'd do just that if need be,"

There was almost a smile that flashed onto his face as the big man's eyes softened; and Athos realized how much he missed this man's boisterous laughter.

"You can bet on that," Porthos said.

Athos looked away, remembered the weight of manacles on his wrists, the voices of prisoners loud and harsh in the morning air and the sight of the firing squad taking aim at him.

" _I thought I'd finally shaken you two off."_

" _Believe me, there are easier ways."_

Swallowing down the rock that rose unbidden in his throat Athos let his gaze wonder over the white expanse. Tried not to think of the man who linked snow to death in his mind and brought out every protective instinct he had buried with Thomas in Pinon. Blinking away the memories of his first friend in the Musketeers, Athos found himself looking at the dark object amongst the debris half buried in the snow. There was something familiar about it, something that told him it didn't belong with the rocks and the dirt that the snow-slide had brought down with it.

Walking over Athos reached down and grabbed the pointed edge protruding from the snow. Tugged carefully and refused to accept that the tanned leather was what he feared it to be. Plucking it from the snow he brushed away the white powder with a shaky hand.

His eyes burned, he couldn't breathe against the band that was suddenly around his chest.

"Athos?"

He turned with the leather pouch cradled in his hand. The leather pouch that he knew carried Constance's letters, the leather pouch he could not look away from.

"No," Porthos snapped, "no, no it's not,"

Athos' hand tightened around the proof that his friend was no more, that their youngest was gone. His throat tightened at the image of the man he considered his brother buried alive, cold and suffocating and probably injured as the life seeped out of him.

He closed his eyes as the sound of Porthos throwing up rose in the wind.

* * *

He was moving.

A steady pace that he was familiar with even though there were moments of skipped rhythm and an offbeat haste; clearly the gait of a horse making its way down a slope.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes slowly; blinked against the darkness that was not yet too deep and pulled in a slow breath. Pain flared at his side and he gasped, felt the solid length wrapped around his chest shift slightly. And the agony receded, dulled back to the blunt edge that the thick binding around his chest had been maintaining. Lifting a heavy hand d'Artagnan patted the support bound around him and frowned when his mind registered it to be an arm, an arm that was holding him up against the person at his back.

He stiffened and as an answer there was a gentle press of the arm holding him, there and gone in a second, a reassurance offered without words.

Athos or Porthos he wondered; tried to decide who it was holding him in the saddle.

"We should camp here, a bit of cover at least,"

D'Artagnan froze; that voice he didn't know.

And everything tumbled down on him in an instance, the deserters, the trap, the gunpowder. He remembered the earth slipping under him and the harsh jolt as something yanked on his collar. There was no way Porthos or Athos would have been there to save him, it were the men he had followed, the traitors.

His eyes shot open wide and d'Artagnan slammed his head in the person at his back. Felt the hiss in the chest he was pressed against even as he wriggled out of the arm around him and scrambled out of the saddle.

His breath left him in a groan as he fell on his side.

Snow and dirt scratching the side of his face as he lay gasping.

"I told you we should have tied him up," the voice spoke again.

And then there were boots in the line of his sight. D'Artagnan curled his legs up to his chest before he kicked out, caught the man in the knees and gritting his teeth against the pain he lunged for his fallen captor. His fingers snatching up a pistol before he was shoved off.

D'Artagnan rolled right back on to his feet, hunched forwards and breathing shallow.

"Really? This is the gratitude we get for dragging your sorry behind to safety?" the man before him demanded.

D'Artagnan squinted in the dim glow of the evening and blinked away the beads of sweat that had broken over his forehead. The narrow faced man scowling at him was not among the two who had set up the snow-slide but d'Artagnan was not ready to trust him either. Pressing one hand against his sore ribs he kept the pistol steady in his other.

"You were the one who pulled me out of that ditch?" he asked.

"That'll be him," the man nodded, "the one whose face you just tried to break,"

D'Artagnan looked from the corner of his eye at the man standing much too close to him. He stepped back abruptly, not having realized that the man he had been in the saddle with was right by his shoulder. D'Artagnan frowned and shook his head; it wasn't that he hadn't been aware of him it was simply that for some reason he hadn't registered this man's presence as a threat.

"Why did you do it?" d'Artagnan asked, "What's in it for you?"

But the other man didn't reply, simply held still with his face turned away slightly. He was dressed like the man before d'Artagnan but this one had his hood pulled up and what little d'Artagnan could see of his face was hidden behind a thick scarf.

"You're one of them? One of the traitors?"

He glared at the hooded figure that was eerily still. The deepening dusk and the slowing wind carved him out as a haunting effigy against the snow covered ground and the tall ash colored trees. D'Artagnan was about to give up on receiving an answer when the man who had apparently saved him from the snow-slide shook his head slowly.

"Then what're you doing out here in these mountains?" d'Artagnan asked.

The pain wasn't letting him think straight but he knew he had seen these cloak and hoods before, the same shade, the same coarse material. He had come across them he knew and racked his mind to spot them; his eyes opening wide when he did.

"It was you, I found your camp," he murmured, "over a week ago, I found your camp. You murdered General Pierre's men didn't you?"

"Now why would we murder someone? We're farmers," the other man answered, "I'm Mousequeton and this here is my cousin Rene, our land's a day's ride away from here,"

"And why do farmer's need to be armed?"

Mousequeton shrugged a shoulder, his grin bordering on sneer.

"Dangerous times," he said and reached out a hand, "now give me back my pistol, I wouldn't want to ruin all the effort Rene went through to patch you up."

D'Artagnan tightened his hold on the weapon even as he realized that his chest was indeed bound up to support the broken ribs and there was a telltale stinging pull of bandage on his arm. He glanced from Mousequeton to the horse that had been apparently between him and Rene. D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he recognized the animal.

"Found that one confused and scared on the mountain slope," Mousqueton followed his line of sight.

Recognizing his horse d'Artagnan moved closer to the animal. With the pistol shifting its aim from one man to the other in his sight he reached for the pommel of the saddle. Sucked back the cry that threatened to break free and ignored the swirling in his gut.

Swallowing back the bile that rose to his throat d'Artagnan clutched the saddle in a death grip.

He had no idea who these people were and he had no idea where he was but one thing was clear in his mind; he had to find his regiment. He had to make sure that his brothers were alive; had he been right in his actions he wondered or were they buried under layers of snow; a shiver went through d'Artagnan that had nothing to do with the pain. They couldn't be dead, not his brothers, please let them not be dead he prayed.

Sweat broke out at the back of his neck and trailed down his spine as he forced himself straight.

Mousequeton raised an eyebrow but Rene didn't turn his way. One man watched while the other stood with his head tipped a little to the side as if listening carefully. D'Artagna kept a wary eye on both and hooked a toe in the stirrup, using every drop of his stubbornness he pulled himself up.

The cry that ripped out of his control never reached his ears.

They were filled with the sound of his own heartbeat; thundering against the pain that radiated from his chest. White hot it pulsed out from his ribs, and left a bitter taste in his mouth as the world sloshed behind his closed eyes.

D'Artagnan felt himself tilt sideways.

Felt nothing but air at his side as he fell.

But the last thing he felt were the arms that were suddenly around him and the body that fell with him, hitting the ground in his stead.

* * *

His muscles burned.

His shoulders ached and his hands shook.

Porthos wasn't sure if he could uncurl his fingers where they were wrapped around the thick branch he had been using to dig the snow. With a grunt and a huff he bent again and kept digging. He would not believe it, he would not believe the lad dead unless he was standing over his cold lifeless body; Porthos shuddered and it was not from the exertion.

A hand gripped his wrist.

He looked up and nearly jumped to find Athos standing beside him, in the hole he had made. He hadn't heard his friend come this close and found himself blinking against the haze that was clinging to his vision.

"Stop a while," Athos said.

"He can't Athos – he is not –" Porthos shook his head.

He looked past his friend at the many heaps of snow where he had already dug through and felt his heart sink. Turned back to the task at hand before Athos stopped him with a squeeze to his wrist, blue eyes dulled and tired met his own. And Porthos found that for all his air of command and arrogance his friend looked impossibly fragile; looked too exposed in the night that had fallen clear and crisp as if to mock the weather of the day.

"Take a break," Athos said.

Let go of him and sat back on the slope of the ditch Porthos had made. Following his friend's example he eased down opposite him and wiped at his brow, frowned at how heavy he had been breathing and swallowed to soften his parched throat.

Athos offered him a water-skin.

"The General is adamant that it wasn't one of his men who did it," he said.

Trying not to gulp down the water too fast Porthos pulled the waterskin away from his mouth and wiped at his chin, his eyes taking on a hard edge.

"You didn't tell him what I told you? What Aymeric said?"

"I did, he doesn't believe it,"

"And what about the missing men from his command?"

"Says he sent them to scout ahead,"

Porthos clenched his jaw shut and looked away. They may have lost d'Artagnan to the planning of those men and those murderers wouldn't even pay for it. It had been clear by Aymeric's confidence that they had trouble brewing for the path ahead and yet it seemed that the Generals were comfortable closing their eyes to the threat in the midst.

Somehow, someway Ayemric and his men had planned this disaster he was sure. This snow-slide was not natural and it could have killed dozens of their men, dozens of Musketeers since they were at the head of the march, it could have killed Athos; it did kill d'Artagnan. Porthos turned around and was out of the hole before he felt Athos' arm across his front, the man's voice coming to his ears but the words didn't stick long enough to make any sense, he couldn't think straight, he couldn't look straight for the crimson haze of fury that flooded through him.

He had felt such rage once before and Athos and d'Artagnan's combined strength hadn't been able to fully keep him check.

" _You'll get your justice Porthos…"_

His steps faltered at those words, at the thought of how that man had calmed him down without laying a hand on him. And the absence of those eyes, of that presence hit like a blow to that young part of him that he had closed off at his mother's death. Porthos bit the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down, not matter how much he wished it not to be d'Artagnan was dead. Athos needed him now especially with all of them still in possible danger and the command not listening to the Captain and the one person that Porthos truly wanted, the one person he desperately needed at his side was not there.

Because that man was the grip on his shoulder when Porthos was bleeding out on the ground, he was the precision of stitches keeping him together, the pat on the back to tell him he was not alone. The man who was the grin of a trust proved true in exploding melons, the strength at his side when he faced down his past and he was the man one who had walked away from it all. Porthos turned away from Athos who was standing before him and looked back at the mountain slope.

"Shouldn't have let him go," he muttered.

"You couldn't make that decision for d'Artagnan,"

"You're right, couldn't make it for him either,"

Athos came to stand at his side, their shoulders brushing as they looked at the jagged peaks against the starlit sky. At the deceptively calm view that hinted nothing of the loss they had met there.

"How do you go on when you're cut in half?" he asked.

Porthos had no answer to that, he was still searching in him for the strength to carry on, still feeling the tremors of acceptance that their youngest was truly gone. He grit his teeth and wiped a hand over his eyes.

"I'm not going to leave him here," he said.

"We'll be turning back and changing routes, the Generals think it's too dangerous to remain on this path," Athos was not looking at him.

His was voice flat, not even the hint of that tilt in his words that gave away his noble brought up.

"I'm not leaving until I find him."

"I've convinced them to camp here for the night," Athos said.

His face gleamed with telltale wetness when he finally turned to Porthos and the big man felt something break in him when his proud friend looked down at his hands, head hanging low.

"I'm sorry that is all I can offer," said the Captain.

Porthos grabbed the man by the arms and yanked him close, wrapped his arms around the bowed shoulders and held on. D'Artagnan was just another soldier to those men, the Generals didn't understand their loss, they didn't understand the need to find the lad whether he breathed or not. And some part of Porthos understood that, the years of war lent reason to it but the thought of their young one out alone in the cold left him catching his breath.

"It's not your fault Athos," his voice came out thick, "you fought for him in there, you stood up for him and that's what matters."

"I couldn't convince them to –"

"You got us the night," Porthos stepped back and met his friend's gaze, "We'll find him."

Athos frowned.

So did Porthos.

There was a distant sound of pistol shots echoing in the night, one after the other, and they both turned as one to the campsite in the distance. Even when everything in him demanded he look for his lost brother Porthos still followed Athos back to their camp because those still alive needed him.

* * *

The stitches in the arm weren't torn but one more rib was broken.

Aramis grimaced at the memory of his friend taking a fall in his confusion and tucked the blanket around the younger man's shoulders where he had propped him up against a tree. He had at least reached him in time to catch the lad before he had hit the ground the second time. Laying a bare hand against the forehead that was creased in pain even when unconscious, Aramis was relieved to find the skin warm. Or he was the one finally getting warmer and his friend was still cold, he had no idea which was true.

Glancing at the gap in the trees at his back he hoped that Mousequeton would hurry back, if only to confirm that d'Artagnan was getting better. Smoothing down the blanket around his friend he took to his feet.

A smile curled under the scarf he had wrapped around the lower half of his face and he swiped his tongue over his split lip that d'Artagnan had busted in his attempt to escape. There was a strange assurance in meeting with the younger man's fighting spirit. But the smile faded at the question that echoed in his head, the one d'Artagnan had asked him, the one that had stilled his heart and halted his mind.

The simple direct demand to know if he was a traitor.

And deep down he knew in a way he was, the way he had left his brothers was a treachery too brutal to be ignored. It had taken him some time to understand that that was not what his young friend was asking, that it was not the reality that haunted every second of his life, that the question was not that particular nightmare coming true.

With a shake of his head Aramis pulled away from the guilt that was like a splinter under his skin, hurting and festering and out of reach. He looked to the approaching rider with a hand on his pistol, letting it rest there as he searched their darkened surroundings for anyone following Mousequeton.

"Just an hour's ride and there they are," said the man.

"Camped?"

"Settled for the night, it seems they were lucky enough to not get caught in it;"

Aramis glanced at his unconscious friend, he had a feeling luck didn't have a hand in this but let the matter rest. Made sure the next words didn't hold the dread that was curled in his gut.

"Any casualties?" he asked.

"None that I could make out," Mousequeton said, "what about him?"

Aramis glanced again at where d'Artagnan was still unconscious; he had been slipping in and out of awareness as they had covered more distance down the mountain side but the pain had finally knocked him unconscious some time before they had stopped for the night.

"He's hanging on,"

"You have his horse ready?" Mousequeton dismounted.

He led his horse over to the other two and Aramis let him see the answer instead of replying. He had prepared the Musketeer's horse for as soon as the rider was able to stay in the saddle unassisted. Aramis was half tempted to put the unconscious lad on the horse and lead him back to the army camp now that he knew how close it was. He knew it was not luck that the army was close by, he was sure it was the doing of the two men who would be out of their minds with the worry for their youngest. A sick feeling tightened in his gut as he wondered if they had presumed d'Artagnan dead and he grimaced at the sour taste it left in his mouth, he couldn't imagine any of them dead, that was the reason he was doing this after all.

"You've got no idea how glad I am that I didn't come across another snowy field littered with the dead," Mousequeton came to stand at his side, "blood on snow," he shook his head, "it's a stain that never leaves,"

Aramis swung his head around to face him, not even noticing the twinge in his neck from the speed.

"What?" it came out a dry whisper.

Mousequeton didn't look his way, the shadows on his drawn face seemed to deepen in the dark of the night and Aramis couldn't look away. A cold dread was crawling over his skin, piercing into his lungs and freezing them. The metal like smell of blood filled his nose and stuck to the roof of his mouth, there was a rush of cries in his ears, a din of screams creating a web around his head.

"Been there once, when I was in the army of a Duke,"

Aramis didn't dare look away from the man at his side, couldn't find in himself to glance at battle that curled like a mist around them. His fingers twitched as the hazy echo of nearly a decade old actions pulled on the ghostly strings of memory. Where every gasped breath, every spark from pistol shots, every glint of metal and the kick of the musket fired blew clear and precise to the forefront of his mind.

"They said it was an army out to attack us in the night but most of them were mere children," Mousequeton looked down at his hands, "they weren't even armed properly."

" _We were attacked in the night, most of our men killed as they slept. Marsac and I knew we were going to die but we fought side by side regardless, like soldiers."_

"Fought like dogs, vicious and bloody. Never stood a chance against us but damn did they fight,"

" _Aramis, you were there. You saw the butchered bodies."_

" _You don't need to remind me."_

Red exploded in his vision, burning in his blood and scorching out the world. He didn't know when he had lunged at the man at his side; he had no idea where the first hit landed or the next that rained down. Awareness slammed into him with the hard thud of the ground at his back. The red cooled into a blue tinged with grey, a chilly stillness surrounding his heart as he sprung back at Mousequeton like a viper, ready to kill the man with his bare hand, ready to look into his eyes and watch the light go out.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Stop damnit!"

" _No-one has the right to judge me! You alone know what really happened."_

"Rene, I – stop –you little –"

" _Treachery can't go unpunished, Aramis. The lives of our dead friends must be avenged."_

"–listen will you just –?"

A booted foot connected with his chest and he fell on his back again, an arm wrapping against his throat as a voice in his ear pleaded for him to listen. Aramis slammed his head back into it. Turned around and punched the face that was already splattered with blood. Mousequeton pressed a hand against his nose and pushed up onto his knees, his other hand pressed against the ground to remain steady.

Something shifted in chest and Aramis gasped as he took to his feet. His hand pressed against the flaring pain he stepped closer to Mousequeton. Stopped only when the man raised a hand that was not cupping his nose.

"I was wrong, I was wrong but I was following orders!" Mousequeton cried out, "but I couldn't let it be. I couldn't sleep – those faces they wouldn't let me be,"

Twenty dead; left scattered in the snow like animals.

"You think I can?" Aramis voice was cold.

He pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the head of the man he had been trusting to watch his back for over two years now.

"There was too much death; I couldn't get over how they weren't prepared for us. I got drunk and went to the Duke," Mousequeton sat back on his heels and wiped the blood from his nose.

He made no move to duck out of the range of the pistol.

"You know what I got for that? A murdered family and a house on fire,"

Mousequeton's head bowed, his hands falling onto his folded knees.

Aramis' hand didn't shake and his aim didn't waver.

It never had.

A growl reverberated from somewhere behind him.

Aramis glanced back at the moving shadows, turned fully as he saw them detach from the depths of the thicket they had found to stop at the edge of. A mistake Aramis realized as the yellow eyes drew closer. His gaze flicked towards d'Artagnan, injured and unconscious and nearer to the wolves that had emerged from amongst the trees.

Heart thrumming a wild beat, his gaze shifted from his friend to the animals prowling closer. There were five –no six Aramis counted –six or maybe seven or nine? – he glanced back at d'Artagnan and his throat nearly closed up when the younger man stirred, the Musketeer's slow movements clear in his too alert eyes even from the distance.

The wolf closest to d'Artagnan pounced and Aramis fired.

Pulled out his other pistol and shot the other one between the eyes even as the first fell.

Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew that the army in the distance would have heard them but he was too focused on getting to d'Artagnan; to reach the younger man who was scrambling to stand against the tree at his back as Aramis' dagger found home in the neck of the wolf growling before the Musketeer.

Aramis was pulling the musket from his back, fingers flying to prepare it even as he rushed towards his injured friend. His eyes going over the animals that had pulled back slightly, teeth bared and the skin on their snouts pulled back in vicious snarls. They were regrouping, spreading out in half a circle before the three men and Aramis couldn't help the hint of admiration at their thinking.

Settling the butt of his musket against his shoulder he stopped a few feet away from his young friend. Watched the wolves spread further apart and from the corner of his eye he saw Mousequeton stopped halfway in his dash towards their supplies by the horses; the pistols in his grasp spent already and Aramis didn't need to look to know that the man hadn't been wearing the refill pouch in his belt. He would have ripped into him for having let down his guard but there was a wolf that seemed ready to do just that to the man, literally. The animal was studying his movements, the hair on the animal's back arched and a low growl in its throat.

" _You heard him! You heard what he said! He's guilty! And you heard his reasons..."_

Aramis glanced back at the wolf before d'Artagnan the one licking the drool from its teeth as it stepped closer, yellow gaze flicking from the injured musketeer to him and then back. The other one stepped forwards towards Mousequeton and Aramis adjusted his grip on the musket.

One shot, he had one shot.

" _This has to end here, Aramis. You know that."_

Mousequeton could take his chance, if he made it to their supplies there were loaded pistols in there. But if the wolf got to him first – Aramis felt d'Artagnan shift behind him. The lad couldn't even stand straight and Aramis' gaze shifted to Mousequeton, he would never make it to the supplies if the wolf pounced. And the animal looked ready for it, its weight shifting on its haunches – the one before d'Artagnan stepped back slightly, ears pulled back and body shifting to make a lunge -

" _Don't you want revenge?"_

" _I want justice."_

Aramis aimed and fired.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. Thank you Debbie for sharing your thoughts with me and thank you Greenfern for your kind words and for providing me with the correct Spanish terms. The previous chapters are edited with the help of the words you provided THANK YOU!**


	10. Chapter 10

He came around slowly.

Swallowed to sooth his dry throat, brows pulling into a frown as the steady pain announced its presence. Flashes of movements and mummers came to his mind, of touches to his forehead and arms holding him up and d'Artagnan couldn't understand why he hadn't felt the panic that he knew he should. He knew he was not among friends, he had no idea why it didn't alarm him given his condition.

Head rolling against the rough surface it was leaning on, he turned it to the side and blinked open his eyes.

His heart stilled.

So did his breath.

Yellow eyes bore into his own.

And then the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot.

One and another and d'Artagnan's feet scrabbled against the cold ground as he pressed back against the tree bark and forced his legs under him. The cutting pain in his side and the need to fight in his blood warred within him; his head swam. Gut churning as a flash of metal buried into the wolf before him and his grasp on the tree at his back tightened. Torn between the need to move and stuck with the pain if he did, d'Artagnan eyed the wolves that were drawing back a bit. Fingers digging in the rough bark behind him he did his best to stay upright as his gaze shifted to the man a little way off to his side who had stopped with a musket in his hand, standing still and alert.

The growls were a low thunder in the air, a rumbling promise of bloodlust.

D'Artagnan watched as the wolf nearest to him stepped back a little, crouching slightly before it lunged. And d'Artagnan's eyes widened as the man with the musket fired a shot off into the distance, pulled out his sword and simply stepped in front of him; right in the path of the attacking wolf.

There wasn't even a touch of hesitation there.

Terrifyingly unfazed d'Artagnan realized, a sense that he had only associated with a Musketeer before, the one he had met when he had came to the garrison in search of Athos. A man who hadn't moved an inch to escape the dagger flying his way, who had simply been amused to see it burry in the wood a hair's breadth away from his nose.

Snarls rose amidst the clicking sound of jaws snapping on air.

D'Artagnan jumped when someone grabbed his arm.

It was Mousequeton.

The man fired at the wolf running towards them and dragged him along. Looking back over his shoulder at the man who had thrown off the dead animal he had been wrangling, d'Artagnan was relieved to see him get back to his feet. Turning his head back he nearly smacked face first into the horse that was suddenly there. Gasping and clutching the broken ribs that had not enjoyed the run d'Artagnan frowned at the man who fired a shot at the wolf about to lunge at his companion in the distance.

"The army's an hour out that way," Mousequeton told him, "go, go, go!"

"Have to – help him,"

"You leaving is all the help he needs right now," Mousequeton snapped at him.

Grabbed his legs and shoved him up on the horse.

The world lurched and blacked out; d'Artagnan clenched his jaw shut and willed it stay, held on to the tethers of his consciousness until the world spun back around him. He was certain he would throw up on the man steadying him in the saddle and blinked against the beads of sweat burning in his eyes, focused instead on the grip on his leg that held him in place.

It was the man who had stepped in front of the wolf in his place.

Breathing short and shallow through his nose d'Artagnan looked at the man now standing by his horse, head turned away to watch the regrouping wolves. Bile rising back to his throat when he saw the torn, blood drenched arm that was stretched up to hold him and d'Artagnan turned his head away. Bit back a cry as his horse broke into a trot, his shaking fingers wrapped around the reins but he let the animal keep its course. He was vaguely aware that it was the direction Mousequeton had told him of and slumped forwards, nearly lying on the horse's neck as the echo of pistol shots followed him.

* * *

He met Cornet halfway there.

The Musketeer stopped short in surprise as he and Porthos slid down the slope of the snow that had been brought down from the mountain. Absently brushing away the cold that clung to him Athos raised a brow.

"Well?"

"We heard shots fired," Cornet explained.

"So did we,"

"Not from the camp?" Porthos asked.

Cornet shook his head, ducking instinctually and turning on his heels when they heard pistol shots again. Much closer this time and then the cries of surprise erupted. Athos brushed past the Musketeer, pulling out a sword in one hand and his pistol in the other as he hurried to the army camp, with Porthos a step behind him.

Chaos greeted them in all its frightening glee.

Trampled campfires, upturned pots and forgotten dinners rolled underfoot as shots cracked the air and tents blazed in crisp air. The men were rushing towards the battle that seemed to have erupted in the corner of their camp, half dressed and hastily armed, eyeing each other in shock and doubt.

General Garth was screaming for his men to report while General Lavelle stood at his side watching like a particularly bewildered owl as the soldiers rushed past them. Spotting the cart ahead Athos stepped up on its back and onto the barrels piled there, blue eyes scanning the unprecedented battleground some feet away where many French soldiers had locked blades and shots still flew sporadically.

Porthos was at his back, just behind his shoulder and Athos knew that he would see any errant threat coming their way. He looked for his men instead.

"Musketeers to ME!" Athos called over the noise, "MUSKETEERS!"

And they answered in a breath; men quickly dispatching their opponents and breaking away from the fight, pushing through the throng that looked unsure how to help and ducking out from where they had taken cover under fire. In the confusion of Generals shouting for their soldiers, they responded to the one name they all carried and came to their Captain.

"Report,"

"It's General Pierre's men," Alain wiped the blood from his eye.

"They came through the camp shooting everyone in their path," Matiss spoke up.

"The General is dead," Francis said, "at least one of them boasted that he is,"

Athos could see what had happened, the General had confronted his men and they had retaliated. He looked to where the fight seemed to have dwindled out; light from the tents that still smoldered cast a flickering glow over the bodies left behind.

"They'd run," Porthos spoke from his side.

"Then we'll give chase,"

"There are too many," General Garth spoke up.

He stepped into the crowd of Musketeers that had gathered before the cart and looked up at Athos. His dark eyes challenging and face set in a grim blankness. Athos remained where he was, ignored the weight of his men's gaze and tucked his pistol back in his belt.

"That's too many that can regroup and attack us from behind," he said, "We give chase and end it now,"

"They're probably scared, afraid that we'll punish them for the deeds of one of their faction,"

"Those will be the ones who wouldn't stop tonight," Athos refused to look away from the hard eyes of the General, "they will know we are coming and they will try to put as much distance as they can between us and them. The other ones will be regrouping nearer,"

"And you are sure that there is such a group,"

Athos' hand shifted from the hilt of his pistol to the other item he had tucked in his belt. His fingers brushed the hard edge of the leather pouch before he laid a hand over it, he could feel the paper crinkle under his touch.

"I am sure, "he said, "I had warned you already and while we stand here discussing this, the men looking to wipe out our army are likely getting ready to sneak another attack."

Athos wasn't sure what he would do if the Generals still opposed him, a part him wanted to leave behind the position he was given if it meant he could hunt down the men responsible for d'Artagnan's death while the other felt indebted to the men who trusted him with their lives.

General Garth looked away.

His gaze scanned over the corner of the camp where men were seeking out the wounded from the dead while others were putting out the remaining embers of the burned down tents. He looked back to Athos and nodded.

"I can give you fifteen men," he said.

Athos kept the surprise off from his face and turned to the Musketeers.

"Any casualties among us?" he asked.

Ignored the one death that was lying heavy on his heart and went through the faces before him; of the forty able men under his command nearly all were there.

"A few nicks here and there," Francois shrugged and looked around, "nearly all of us are accounted for except for –"

He looked up at Athos and stopped.

Porthos shifted on his feet.

"Except for d'Artagnan, he is still missing," Athos said, "We will take ten of ours,"

"I will take them," Porthos spoke up.

Athos looked to his friend, protest forming on his lips but his voice didn't back. He knew he was needed here to sort through the aftermath with the other Generals and his brother was the best choice to lead the men in his place. But the fear that clamped tight on his heart even as he nodded his assent. He still stared at Porthos as the big man called out the men he would take before he stepped down from cart to collect his horse. General Garth walked with him to his men and picked out the ones he was sending out.

Athos stepped down from the cart and came to stand beside the General.

"We will need to account for the dead and the wounded," General Garth said, "And here I thought that we wouldn't be sending men back before we reached the fort,"

Neither had he. But it seemed they didn't have a choice, just like they had no choice but to change their route, just like he had no choice but to attend to his duties when all he wanted was to search for d'Artagnan, and just as he would have no choice but to leave him behind come morning.

"I think I should gave a name to the people under my command," said General Garth, "seems affective,"

"It is,"

Athos caught the smirk the other man sent him but couldn't find it in him to respond. Greif and worry tangled in his mind and his eyes sought the men that were about to leave. A touch on his arm surprised him and he cast a glance at the General at his side.

"When my men return, they'll need some rest before we can turn back and the take the other route," said the man, "and like you pointed out in the meeting this evening the other path is far more treacherous than this one. It wouldn't do to begin travelling through that in the night,"

Athos blinked.

The meaning behind the words sinking slowly in the ground of his belief that had hardened against the commanders he had come across in the past years. He stared at the man offering him another day and night in this place, offering him a chance to look for d'Artagnan.

"The others –"

"I'll handle them," said the man.

Athos nodded, still unsure of this sudden kindness. But his attention turned to the men heading out into the night and in the light of the torches they carried his eyes caught the figure at the front of the group. Porthos looked to him as he passed him by on horse, a grim determination in his eyes that promised vengeance and Athos' hands clenched into fists to keep from stopping the man.

As he watched the men leave their camp he wondered how many brothers was he supposed to bury.

* * *

The world was spinning, or he was.

It didn't matter to the muddy feeling in the pit of stomach.

Aramis fell back against the tree and slid to the ground. There was a trembling in his knees and a tightness in his chest as if a chain was wrapped around it; there was pain in there too somewhere, distant and blunted against the tremors of the memories shook loose in his mind. Warm blood on his skin and cold earth under him, the stench of death in the chilly air mingling with the smell of barren trees.

His cheek stung; it stung again.

Aramis opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them.

There was a face looming over him.

"Marsac,"

"What? No it's Mousequeton, c'mon Rene keep your eyes open."

Reality crashed into him, heavy and powerful and frothing and Aramis gasped.

He pushed away from the tree at his back and slumped forwards, blood drenched arms limp at his sides and fingers still curled around his weapons. Forcing his eyes open he pulled in a breath and his wits with it. His head felt heavy and light at the same time as he lifted it from where his chin had come to rest on his chest. Ignored the man talking at his side and looked to the gap in the trees where d'Artagnan's horse had ridden off to. His friend hadn't looked like he could sit straight in the saddle, but he knew that Musketeers' horses were used to having men draped over their necks and prayed that his friend had just held on.

The jolt of pain left him growling.

Mousequeton leaned back a little where he was crouched at his side.

"I have your satchel here," he said.

Drawing up knee Aramis unwrapped his fingers from the dagger in his left hand and pulled his arm to rest on the raised knee; clenched his jaw shut against the white hot pain that shot through his limb at the movement.

"Let me –"

"I've got it," he said.

Reached for the satchel with his right hand and propped it open against his side. Mousequeton watched him take the bottle of spirits he kept there, his face turning grim as Aramis pulled out the cork with his teeth and doused the wounds on his left arm. Bit back the hiss that threatened to break out and letting go a breath he sucked another in, clenched his eyes shut and poured a healthy dose over his right arm next.

And then he let his head thump back against the tree bark; hard.

"You'll need firelight to clean them properly," Mousequeton said.

"We're too close to the army camp,"

"They could get infected,"

Aramis considered the risk; he was sure that there were specks of dust and pieces of his sleeve stuck in his flesh and leaving them there was an invitation to infection. On the other hand they could be seen by those on patrol but they could escape them if need be he was sure about that but it would make the army they were shadowing more alert and the next time he will have to keep more distance and the paths ahead wouldn't allow that –

The loud crack had him sitting up straight.

Aramis blinked at Mousequeton who was breaking off branches from the trees, a bundle already tucked under his arm. He simply stared as the man brought it closer and clearing a patch of earth with a swipe of foot he set about piling the sticks he had gathered. Arranging them properly Mousequeton sprinkled some gunpowder on it and stopped with the flints in his hand.

"Would you risk getting caught if it was one of us?" he asked.

Aramis gave him a sharp nod, no hesitation.

A smirk split the narrow face that was already swelling around the nose and Mousequeton set the fire going. Aramis leaned forwards; he hadn't even realized that through the heavy cloak and the scarf around his neck he was still shivering, that is until the warmth reached out to caress his skin. Squinting slightly in the sudden brightness he grimaced at the sticky blood that was itching along the back of his hand and wetting a rag with his water-skin he began cleaning his fingers.

"You were a Musketeer,"

His hand stopped midway and he lifted his gaze from the long wound he had been inspecting to look at the man before him. His reaction to the man's confession had already proved that he was somehow linked to the Musketeers and Savoy. Aramis gave a short nod and went back to his work. A wry smile touched his face as the mixture of blood that hadn't yet stopped and the spirits he had used to clean the wounds made it easy to pick out splinters and shreds of cloth.

"Once we were there it was obvious that they weren't armed for an attack. I knew we've been fooled into attacking that unit," Mousequeton said, "Told the Duke as much."

It wasn't the best of stories to listen to but Aramis let his mind latch onto the words. The pain and anger and the bitter understanding of why his friends had lost their lives cut through the pain flesh was twitching with. His jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as he probed the open wounds for anything he may have missed.

"Of course I was drunk out of my mind when I did that,"

Aramis turned to get his other arm into the light. His right seemed to have fared better of the two and he examined it quickly, picking out the debris from the wounds as he went before the pain in his left arm could reach a pitch that could leave him unconscious.

"I found my girls at the doorstep, my daughters –they must've thought it was me coming home," Mousequeton said, "My wife and boy were inside. The house had burned down, I – I hadn't made it in time to save them,"

Aramis closed his eyes, his fingers still hovering over his bloodied arm as something in him ached, a part of him that wouldn't die no matter how hard he believed that it had. When he opened his eyes it was to find the other man staring at the fire. Reaching out with blood tipped fingers Aramis grasped him by the forearm, looked straight into the surprised eyes that flew to him and he did not look away.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said.

Mousequeton's face twisted into a grimace as if he had been struck in the gut; but when Aramis pulled back the man turned his hand and grabbed his forearm instead. It took everything in him to not hiss at the pressure on open wounds but something in the wide eyed expression told him that the pain was not deliberately caused.

"And I am sorry for yours," Mousequeton said.

He glanced down and Aramis nearly smirked at the horrified look that came on his face.

"Oh hell!" he let go immediately, "wait let me – oh hell – I'll bind that up."

And Aramis let him.

The wounds were too close to each other for there to be a proper edge that could be stitched close and the faster he was done with this the quicker he could check on d'Artagnan. Aramis took the salve from his satchel and applied it on the long gashes before letting the man wrap them with clean bandages. Offering a word or two when it became clear that despite his many skills, including those of the cooking kind, Mousequeton had no idea how to properly tend to a wound.

"The clean linen first," the man nodded to himself as he started on the next arm.

Placing it over the salve covered wounds he started with the binding.

"Tilt it down a little at every turn," Aramis reminded him.

Ignored the throbbing in his limbs and wondered if he should chew on the willow bark he had in his stores. After a few false starts Mousequeton finally found a rhythm. He didn't look up from his work, although his hands slowed down.

"You lost a brother –?" he cleared his throat, "there? In Savoy?"

"I lost twenty of them,"

The hands stilled.

Aramis pulled his arm back and finished the wrapping.

"I watched them fight, I watched them die,"

He tied the knot with his left hand and pulled it tight his teeth.

"And I sat with their bodies warding off crows,"

He let his arms rest in his lap and looked at the man who hadn't blinked for a while. Mousequeton swallowed thickly and his eyes held unveiled horror when they finally rose to meet Aramis'.

"You were there," he said.

Aramis tipped his head to the side.

Held back the sudden wave of exhaustion that wanted to crash into him. Kept his back straight and shoulders set, there was no luxury of rest for him, it was a privilege lost to him when he had taken this position.

"So were you," he said.

Mousequeton flinched.

"And here we are," Aramis shrugged a shoulder.

The hate and rage that had burned through him was gone, leaving a bare tangle of understanding in its place. They were both mercenaries now but he had been a soldier once and so had this man, they had followed orders, not been asked for opinions. They had done what they were told to and that was that.

The clatter of horse hooves had Aramis reaching for his pistol.

He was up and aiming for the riders that neared them.

Two of them.

Kitty and Devereux.

Aramis only lowered his weapon when they slowed to a stop and dismounted. Letting his arm fall back on his side he focused on the pulsing ache there, it kept him present and alert for the new trouble he was sure to be the reason behind this meeting.

"Finally we found you," Kitty smiled.

Her gaze shifting from him to the dead wolves scattered about and her nose scrunched in displeasure.

"Shoddy work," she said.

"We were pressed for time,"

"Wolves at the door?"

"Something like that," Aramis smirked, "I'm guessing that's the reason you're here too,"

Kitty tipped her head slightly in the acknowledgement of his perception as Devereux looked up from where his gaze were lingering on Aramis' bandaged arms. The silent inquiry in his eyes met with a nod, he was injured not out of commission.

"We caught two spies," Devereux said, "they talked."

Aramis was not surprised.

"It was fun," Kitty added.

Aramis was still not surprised.

Devereux's eyes slid to the woman at his side but he said nothing and turned his attention back at Aramis.

"There's an entire Spanish regiment headed this way, about an hour or so behind us." he said, "Something about a surprise attack to finish off what's left of the French soldiers on this route,"

"They think the snow-slide had rendered the French incapacitated,"

The two new arrivals looked surprised.

"Long story," Aramis waved it off, grimaced at the pain it stoked anew, "that still doesn't change the fact that this attack would be a surprise,"

"So we warn them," Kitty shrugged.

"How?" Devereux asked.

Not from her but from Aramis.

And after so long of making decision that could end with the death of so many and finding ways around the two armies they were always in the middle of Aramis was not surprised by the expectant looks his way. He looked from their campfire still burning bright to the way d'Artagnan's horse had gone. Putting his pistol back in its place Aramis went over the wolf that still had his dagger stuck in its neck. Drawing it out he wiped it on the fur and turned back.

"We attack them first," he said.

* * *

They were found only a few minutes later.

Quarter of an hour at most.

Their enemy charged down at them from the gentle slope at their side. Porthos was glad he had ordered the men with him to tie a strip of white on both arms, they needed to acknowledge friend from foe when the faces were familiar and colours they wore identical. Still he was not used to being the prey, he was not a target for these men; he had set out to hunt them down.

With a roar he stabbed his opponent, pulled out the blade to block another's and with quick concise moves slit that one's throat; turned his horse around and stabbed the third one under his arm, the blade that man wielded bounced harmlessly off the armour Porthos wore.

These men had attacked them from within their ranks.

They were the reason d'Artagnan was dead.

They were the reason there wasn't even a body found of their friend.

Porthos cut down one man after the other, locked in the rage that flowed through his veins and pulsed in his head until there was nothing left but the battle. He pulled out his sword from another slumped figure before him and looked around. He had no idea when he had dismounted but there he was, amidst the men and weapons. In the flashing bursts of shots fired and the flickering glow of the few torches that had survived being trampled, his gaze fell on the man he had been looking for.

Aymeric was still on his horse with a musket in his hand.

Porthos made his way over; with the turn of a sword in one hand he reached up with the other and grabbed the man. Pulled him down in a single fluid move even as the man cursed and squawked. Porthos rolled with the butt of the musket that was coming to his face, felt the blow glance off without breaking any bones and slammed the pommel of his sword in the man's face in response. The musket dropped from Aymeric's hand and he backtracked, the red split in his cheek swelling into a deep blue.

"Porthos?" he sputtered, "I thought – we were buddies – friends,"

"I wouldn't go that far," he stepped closer.

His sword raised slightly at his side.

"You betrayed us?" Aymeric looked hurt.

It would have been effective if not for the exaggerated expression, Porthos stepped closer still, not ready to fall for the rouse.

"I thought you were one of us,"

"I would never be one of you,"

Aymeric fell; tripped over something in his backwards escape and went sprawling onto the ground. Porthos lunged at him, saw the flash of pistol the man had pulled out at the last second as he fell and he ducked to avoid the shot. Lost his footing and threw out a hand to stop his face from hitting the ground.

The muzzle pressed to his head left him stiffening.

Glancing up and to the side he saw Aymeric grinning at him.

His grip tightened on the hilt of the sword still in his hand and Athos' face, pale and grim, flashed before his eyes; the fear and the need for him to return alive from this battle had been a bright sheen in the blue lines that had met his own. And Porthos knew that he would not be dying that night, he would not be dying in this battle and not in this damned war; he could not do that Athos.

Porthos turned, the shot going by his ear in a deafening crack as his sword went through the man's chest.

Aymeric slumped and Porthos pushed him away, his ear ringing as a headache gonged through his skull. The dead surrounded him and those of the enemy that were alive were throwing down their weapons. Pushing back to his feet he stopped when the earth wavered around him, a steady swaying that increased with each step that he took.

But he had men depending on him.

Porthos ignored the steady ringing in his ear and willed the swinging earth to stop, grit his teeth and pushed through when it was clear that his order was ignored. He went over the men left alive, those wounded and those lost, ordered the prisoners to be secured before settling in his saddle.

He was ready to be sick right there.

But he caught Francis watching him carefully and met his gaze with a challenging one of his own. The younger Musketeer looked away, Porthos smirked and set his horse into a ride back stretched longer somehow, each shift of the horse forwards lurching his stomach until he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. And that annoying ding in his ear clung on.

But it was worth the look on Athos' face when they reached their camp.

The Captain of the Musketeers met them on the edge of the site and hurried closer to Porthos' horse as he dismounted, a hand snagging his arm when the motion set the world swinging again. There was a muffled sound at his side and Porthos turned to his friend.

"What?" he asked.

Athos looked from his one side to the other before he leaned towards the left and spoke again.

"You're injured," he said.

"Pistol went off too close to the ear,"

Athos nodded, looked him over again before turning to his left again.

"Thank you," he said.

And Porthos knew exactly what it was for; it was the same gratitude he had felt every time Athos and d'Artagnan had survived a battle. With a nod he informed the Captain of Armand, the Musketeer lost in this skirmish and Henri and Etienne the soldiers from General Garth's command that were also lost. He pointed to the eleven bound up men.

"The rest of 'em are dead," he said.

Athos nodded and as he turned away to order his men to secure the prisoners, Porthos caught sight of the lone horse standing off to the side. It was too far from the men who had returned with him and nowhere near where the other horses were kept for the night.

"Who's that?" he asked.

Athos turned at his inquiry and followed his line of sight. It dawned on Porthos just as Athos' eyes widened. The name fell from his lips and even though Porthos didn't hear it he knew who it was. And they were breaking off into a run towards the brother they had believed lost.

* * *

He was lost.

Every time he had opened his eyes he had met a changed view.

The loss of time expanded the bubble of panic in his chest; his chest that was on fire beyond the skin and flesh. His horse hadn't stopped in a while and for a while he hadn't guided it either. With an arm curled around his chest and body folded forwards he had no idea where he was. That is until the animal carrying him decided that it had had enough of the meandering.

D'Artagnan groaned.

Winced and raised the hand tangled in the reins to rub at his head. There were voices around him, distant and vague; and a sense of activity. But then he heard it, a voice, two voices.

"d'Artagnan!"

With an effort he pushed himself away from the neck of the horse. Holding his breath he lifted his head up and saw them. Athos and Porthos; running towards him. It was a bleary, wavering sight but it was the best he had ever seen. A slow smile crept up on his face. And then he tipped.

"d'Artagnan!"

He never hit the ground. Hands grasped him and arms held him and he was enclosed in a safety that left him lightheaded. It drained the last of his reserves and he curled into the person holding him close, the armour against his face told him it was Athos and the tight hold of fear vanished from around his heart.

"Open your eyes, c'mon," someone tapped his face, "c'mon d'Artagnan look at me,"

There it was again, the insistent patting that was getting sharper by the second. A particularly stinging hit had him opening his eyes. And he found two faces looming much too close to him, the worry and fear that was raw in their eyes left him grinning.

"I think he hit his head," Athos said.

And fingers carded through his limp hair, skimming over the skin with a gentleness one would not expect from the hands of a battle hardened soldier. But Porthos' search was achingly careful and d'Artagnan nearly slipped into the comforting lull of it before the touch was taken away.

"No head wounds," Porthos said, "but there's a bandage on his arm."

"And around the ribs," Athos' expression was grim.

And then he was shifting out from under him and d'Artagnan had the absurd urge to cling onto the man. His distress may have shown itself because Athos soothed him with a reassuring stroke up and down his arm that he would never have associated with his stoic friend before. But then he was pulled up onto his feet and the world blacked out.

"Two of them broken and three more likely cracked, can't believe he kept in his saddle with that,"

"He's alive; I'll take injured over dead anytime,"

"Don't remind me,"

"He's alive,"

"Yes, keep reminding me that,"

"Porthos, he is alive,"

There was no teasing in the words, no hint of mockery, just relief and a touch of awe. D'Artagnan felt the grip around his wrist and the hand on his forehead; the concern heavy in the touches that were ground him. The touches he had thought he would never again feel, the people he had been afraid that he hadn't been able to save.

He sat up suddenly, sucked in a breath and realized it a mistake in an instant. A moan escaped past his lips as he curled forwards.

"Calm down you idiot,"

D'Artagnan tried to curl again but large hands stayed him. Slowly, carefully they eased him onto his back and against the rolled up blankets behind him. With a hand pressed against his side d'Artagnan let them guide him. Gasping and fisting the blanket draped over him he savored the air that finally reached his lungs, breathing had never been so painful before.

"Easy, easy, you're safe,"

Grabbing the hand on his arm d'Artagnan looked from Porthos to Athos, turned that hand around and grasped Athos' that was latched onto his wrist. They were both there and they were both real and he felt like a child that had finally found home after being stranded in a storm.

Closing his eyes he let the burning in his eyes melt into tears.

"You're alive," he breathed out.

"And so are you," Athos gripped his hand back, "how?"

And that pushed forth the entire tale, the details as he spoke aloud sounded too harrowing and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if he was shivering from relief or memory. He told them all that he had gone through and the decisions that he had made and the fear that he had felt at the thought that he had failed them.

"Can't believe it had only been some hours since I last saw you both," he said.

Blinked away the clinging wetness in his eyes.

And grimaced when he felt large hands grasp his shoulder to pull him up; but his broken ribs didn't have to take the weight for long because he was pulled forwards and up against Porthos. Strong arms wrapped around him as Porthos held him close.

"Thought you were dead," he said, "we thought you were gone,"

"Why? I mean I was –?"

He looked over Porthos' shoulder at Athos who pulled out something form his belt. And d'Artagnan's heart skipped a beat at the sight of his pouch that carried Constance's words. Of course these two would know he would never part with it willingly and if they had found it in the snow they would have thought –

D'Artagnan hugged Porthos back with the one arm that didn't hurt at being moved.

"Guess we were all wrong," he said.

"Thankfully," said Porthos and let him go.

D'Artagnan settled back against the bedding and took the pouch of letters from Athos, his eyes widening when the Captain rose from his seat and embraced him. His eyes prickled, something long faded flared in his heart and his throat closed up as his father's smile flashed in his mind.

"Thank you," Athos said, "thank you for returning,"

"I will always try to," he swallowed the lump in his throat, "will always try my best,"

Athos pulled away, blue eyes suspiciously bright as they refused to meet his own.

And d'Artagnan wasn't the only one who jumped in his skin when the sound of musket shot pierced the air.

Porthos was on his feet, his sword drawn and ready. D'Artagnan would have followed him up if not for Athos' hand on his shoulder, firm and strong. He looked to the Captain who was watching the entrance of the tent while his other hand rested on his pistol. Porthos glanced at him then at Athos.

"More of them?" he asked.

"More of whom?"d'Artagnan asked.

"The entire battalion is disbanded," Athos shook his head.

"Could be some of them returning," Porthos offered.

"Who is returning?"asked d'Artagnan.

More shots were fired and he winced when Athos' fingers dug deeper as his grasp tightened, he glanced at the man again and it hit him quite suddenly; his friend was torn between his duty to go out and face the trouble and his clear need to have d'Artagnan close. Warmth unfurled in his chest and eased the pain there like no herb or salve could.

Gathering his strength he pushed away from the support at his back and swung his feet down the side of the cot.

"What are you doing?" Porthos demanded.

He grit his teeth and pushed to his feet, Athos' arm instantly shifted around his shoulders as he took his weight.

"I'm going to see what the trouble is," d'Artagnan said.

All eyes turned to the tent flap that was pushed aside. Cornet's gaze flicked from one man to the next but settled upon Athos.

"We are being attacked at the front Captain," he said.

"Any riders?"

"Not that we could see,"

"Any damage?"

"None so far,"

Athos nodded at the man in silent dismissal and turned to d'Artagnan as the other Musketeer left. There was a wordless question in his eyes and d'Artagnan offered him a sharp nod; he was fine, he could handle this, he would be close to them but not a hindrance.

With that they left the tent and d'Artagnan reached for Porthos once they had made it to the end of the camp and beyond; where the soldiers had found a barricade in the slope of the snow that had been dumped in their path. He let the big man ease him down to the cold support at his back and shuffled to make room for his friends to crouch down.

"Now will you explain what's going on?" he asked.

And braced himself against the snow, measuring his breathing against the pain lest it pushed him to unconsciousness again. He listened to his brothers explain the sudden attack from within their ranks and found his mind wandering away to a coin flipping over grubby fingers.

" _How did you do that?"_

" _The secret to a good trick? Make people look the wrong way,"_

A hand touched his arm and he started. Porthos was frowning at him and Athos looked ready to send him back to the tent. But he was tired of being the victim; he was not going to be helpless anymore. D'Artagnan reached for Porthos' pistol and settled it firmly in his grasp.

"This was their plan all along," he said.

"Aymeric's?"

"Think about it," d'Artagnan said, "if you were caught in the snow-slide, most of the army would have been wiped out while their group would have been safe riding at the end. And those who would have survived would have turned back at least to change routes. While we would have been turned the other way the Spanish would have attacked us from this one at our back,"

"And Aymeric's men would have attacked from the front," Porthos said.

"They did launch an attack when they heard shots fired," Athos nodded.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened, he had forgotten about the men who had saved his life and his gaze moved towards the slope of the mountain. Those shots they had heard must have been when the wolves had attacked.

"Wolves?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan blinked.

"You said wolves attacked you?"

"And the men who saved me," he nodded, "Aymeric's men must have heard the shots they fired at the wolves as a signal of arrival of the Spanish army."

Athos and Porthos shared a look; ducked lower when a few more shots hit the snow beyond. There was no damage, again, just sporadic shots fired through the night between stretches of silence.

"And these men who saved you were armed?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan nodded and looked down at his hands; he wished he could send out some men to see if they needed help. He could return the favor if those two weren't dead yet.

"Spanish?"

They could have been, he was pretty sure they were from the camp he had found tracing the murderers of those men from General Pierre's men. Wrapping an arm around his lower chest to ease the ache in his ribs d'Artagnan tightened in his grip on the pistol. And then he noticed it, the gloves on his hands; gloves that were not his own and something warm curled in his gut.

"No," he said, "they were farmers,"

* * *

They had been firing shots for some time.

He had seen the soldiers duck behind the slope of snow, had seen them set the ammunition in order for refilling of their muskets and the movement along the camp edge told him the cavalry was prepared as well. Aramis put away his telescope and turned his gaze to the narrow path on his left. Perched on the slope that had been the path of the snow-slide he had a good view of both the sides.

He felt rather then saw Kitty shift at his side.

He head cocked to one side as she shouldered her musket, her eyes narrowing.

"They're coming," she said.

Aramis raised a brow and turned left again, this time with his telescope and sure enough he could see the moving lump in the darkness. Sometimes the tracking skills of the woman at his side scared him.

"One more round should do it," he said.

Raised his musket and fired towards the French army, his shot simply burrowing in the snow. It signaled the pattern of one and two shots from the people under his command and Aramis waited for his turn; felt the sweat bead on his forehead but couldn't find it in him to wipe it away. His arms felt like they were on fire and he needed what little stubbornness he had left to use their shredded strength for wielding weapons.

When the next pause came, he fired, clenched his jaw shut against the kick of the musket to his shoulder that jolted through his arm.

He turned and saw the Spanish army coming closer, the echo of their horses' hooves clattering through the distance. And he signaled his people to fall back. Now that the French army was still alert they could recede in the shadows and help from there. Moving up and into the cover of what little vegetation was on the slope, he stopped with a tree at his back. And waited for the enemy to come closer, measuring the distance in his mind by the thundering sound of the riders. His brows pulled into a frown and he inclined his head a little to listen better.

His eyes widening as the low rumbling under the beat of horse hooves turned into a roar.

By the time he had stumbled to the edge for a better view the only thing he could see was puffs of white, pluming clouds that filled the narrow valley where the Spanish army had been. The air shuddered and Aramis understood the sentiment completely; it was a terrifying sight.

He was still wondering if the Spanish army had been hit by this snow-slide or had they escaped it when another sound filled the air. Cheers, loud and sharp, and whistles filled the night.

* * *

He hadn't the heart to put a stop to their glee.

Not when relief was coursing through his own veins.

Athos looked away from the white mist in the distance, the one the Spanish had vanished in. Whether they were wiped away and buried or if they had escaped the swooping death like they had by some feet he could not tell. Either way, the attack that had been going on for over an hour now was finally, decisively at an end.

"We need to put a bigger watch on this front tonight," he said.

There was no reason to not be vigilant.

Porthos nodded and glanced at the path blocked with snow before them.

"And we need to send out scouts," he said, "that fire coming our way was from somewhere nearer."

"We'll send them out in threes,"

"Better make it five; we don't know how many men are out there,"

Athos agreed but touched his friend's arm to get his attention; it seemed that the big man was trying to decipher the presence of their enemies in the distance. The dark eyes that met his looked confused.

"You will not be going out tonight," Athos said.

"Why? I could –"

"Tonight we will stay together," d'Artagnan spoke up.

Raising the arm he had curled around himself he reached out to grasp Porthos' hand. Athos smirked at his friend who rolled his eyes and leaned down to haul the younger man up; his cautious slow movements belling the exasperation in his face. Athos looked to the distance where the snow had settled anew and suppressed the shudder that threatened to break through his control.

He had come so close to losing both his friends this day.

The fear still crawled up his spine, freezing and clinging onto his long held reserve.

Athos stepped forwards and wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's back; felt the younger man sag between them as Porthos' hand came up to rest on the spot between Athos' shoulders. Their gaze met over their young friend between them and the gratitude there was mutual.

* * *

They had traveled long into the night.

Had ridden for hours to avoid the men he was sure would be sent out to check on their enemies.

Aramis had ordered them to stop only when he was sure that they could not be spotted by those scouts. A glance around him showed plenty of tree cover and another glance closer brought to light how tired his comrades were, even the horses looked exhausted despite the fact that they had been rubbed down and fed.

He pulled his gaze away from the animals and back to the fire that was blazing merrily.

He knew Kitty was the first one who had dropped off to sleep; Devereux had followed next where he was leaning against the tree at his back and Aramis was sure Mousequeton was awake. The man hadn't said a word since he had told him about that he was a Musketeers at Savoy. Mousequeton had silently followed orders until they had set up camp and was now lying on his side now, turned to the shadows and the farthest from the fire; he was lying still; too still.

A smirk touched Aramis' face.

The man twitched and murmured in his sleep, he had seen it enough times.

Aramis leaned back against the saddle; his pistols were still in his belt and his musket was propped up against his knee. Taking the first watch let him stretch his turn as long as he liked and he intended to let those asleep to rest up; he was in too much pain to sleep anyway.

The steady beat of horse hooves against the ground had him looking up; one hand curling around his pistol even as he shifted only slightly from where he sat. There was no need to use his strength for actions not yet needed, he had to save his reserves for when they were under attack. Yet his gaze never left the spot he knew the horses were coming from and from the corner of his eye he could sense Mousequeton sit up; giving up the pretence to sleep.

They waited, tense and weapon ready until the riders emerged from the darkness.

Three of them.

"Captain!" two voices in unison.

Aramis winced; one day he will tame that excitement. But for now he was just happy to see the rest of the people under his charge safe and within sight. He stopped in his thought, wondering when he had come to care about these people this much.

"Captain! We thought we wouldn't come across you for days at least," Bazin said.

"Three days at least," Planchet corrected him.

"That's what I said,"

"You were vague,"

"I was not,"

"You've spent too much time with the children,"

"Well so have you,"

"And yet I haven't regressed,"

"That's what you would like to believe," Bazin grinned.

Alois who had long dismounted walked past the younger men who were yet to get off their horses; unless one of them was shoved off by the others successful swipe. Aramis let go of his pistol and sat up straighter, his face softening as he watched the younger men push at each other much to the indignation of their horses. He looked to Alois who had stopped before him and knew the second the man had caught sight of the bandaged arms; Alois' eyes widened in alarm.

"Captain?"

"Its fine," Aramis shook his head, "your son and the others?"

"Safe at the monastery," Alois looked back at his arms, "that doesn't look fine,"

"It will be,"

Alois didn't look convinced but handed him a letter. The seal told him that it was from the Minister and Aramis felt worry creep into his bones, he hadn't sent any correspondences and the Minister usually simply replied to his inquiries and reports. It was the best way to communicate, that way Aramis knew he had to send someone to retrieve the letter from Madame Pascal; it was sheer luck that they had to refill their supplies so soon that Alois was able to get his hands on the letter.

"Trouble?" asked the man.

"Could be," Aramis said.

He nodded towards the fire.

"Eat, rest, we'll be breaking camp at dawn" he said.

The man gave one last look at his arms before he left to check on the younger men who were seeing to the horses. Aramis opened the letter and skimmed through the words without the cipher; he could see that it was about some criminals recruited in the army but what worried him was the implication that there was trouble in Paris. Aramis let the missive drop in his lap and pinched the bridge of his nose. Trouble in Paris meant threat to the King, threat to the Queen and the Dauphin – he swallowed hard.

"Call them back Jean," he murmured, "get the Musketeers back where they belong,"

"Captain?"

He looked up at Bazin and Planchet and found them staring at him with something almost painful in their eyes. He followed their line of sight to his arms and stifled a sigh. At least they had been spared the horror of it this time around.

"They found you didn't they," it was not a question from Bazin.

"Lads..."

"They tore you up didn't they," it wasn't a question from Planchet either.

With a shake of his head Aramis pushed to his feet, reached out to lay a hand each on the younger men's shoulder and smoothed away the grimace from the gnawing pain it caused him. Waited until they were looking at his face and not at his arms.

"Yes the wolves attacked, yes they clawed at my arm," he looked from one man to the next, "but I survived. And that's what matters."

"The Captain is right,"

Aramis looked up at Mousequeton who had come to stand behind the other two; that man hadn't used that title for him since the very first day that they had met. And yet here he was with a slightly steaming cup in his hand and eyes that wouldn't meet his own.

"Now you two get some food and sleep," he said, "the Captain needs to rest too,"

Aramis looked at the younger men and nodded, hoping to somehow wipe the fear that still lingered in their eyes. He was surprised when they grasped a hand each and offered him a gentle squeeze.

"We're glad you survived Captain," Bazin said.

And then they hurried over to Alois to get some food. Aramis looked to the man left standing before him and waited until their gaze met. It took an effort to ignore the memories of Savoy when he looked at the man but he could not ignore Mousequeton's suffering either.

"Willow bark," Mousequeton offered him the cup.

Aramis hadn't seen him paying attention when he had brewed the first cup but he took it all the same. He needed something to blunt the edge of the throbbing pain that was leaving him just a little sick. Holding the warm cup in both hands he sat back on the ground.

Mousequeton came to sit at his side.

"Back there – with the wolves. You knew what I had done. Why did you save me?"

"You were closer to the supply of our weapons, better our chances with you reaching them," Aramis said.

He turned his gaze away from the three raiding their dry food stores and stared into the blazing fire before him. There was no warmth that it could offer to ease the ice that had crept over his bones and enclosed around his heart ever since the day he had watched his brothers ride away to war, believing him a traitor.

"You had enough weapons to take care of them,"

"Maybe,"

He couldn't deny the range of throwing knives he had taken to carry about his person. Aramis sipped the willow bark tree; the earthy flavor had just a bit too much bitterness for his taste. But it was healing he knew that.

"But you saved my life,"

"I'm not a murderer," it was a simple reply.

Because when one dealt in death nearly every day Aramis believed he had to draw a line somewhere. And taking a life for revenge was never his way; he had been a Musketeer, a protector and now he was – Aramis shook his head slightly.

"It wouldn't have been –" Mousequeton began.

"A sword, a pistol, a wolf; murder is murder." Aramis shrugged a shoulder, "I wouldn't condemn you to death if there is a way I could save you,"

He could feel the eyes burning holes in the side of his head. Mousequeton shifted his weight and shivered before Aramis felt the weight of his gaze move on. The man at his pulled his knees up and his voice when he spoke next was almost a whisper.

"How did you –?"

Aramis' eyes slanted towards the man at his side cutting the question off.

He drained the cup, not tasting the lukewarm tea as he forced his mind to stay in the here and now. Of all the wars he had been a part of, of all the battles he had fought in, that night; that one assignment only had the ability to break him off from reality. His grip tightened onto the empty cup as he found himself again in the one place in his life where he had tasted sheer helplessness. In a fight that he knew he would not win, could not win with any amount of skill or ability. A position in his life where he had learned what utter defeat felt like, had understood how ridiculous the sense of safety was and he had stared death in the face.

His chest burned, stretched and strained and Aramis let go a breath; pulled in the next as his heart thumped like the beat of a gallop. He had been close to death before and after that massacre but Savoy was the battleground where they had faced off. He had looked death in the eye, accepted its might and victory over him and he had still found in him the unreasonable will to fight on.

Aramis sat back against the saddle behind him and uncurled his fingers from around the cup he was holding, placed it down at his side.

"I was wounded," he said, "my friend dragged me to safety,"

The voice from beside him came as a murmur.

"A great friend,"

"He was,"

And Aramis caught the surprise in the eyes of the man at his side, saw him grimace as he assumed that Marsac had met his end in the clearing of Savoy and chose not to explain further. He owed his lost friend that much.

" _Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago. Just took this long for his body to catch up."_

Aramis looked up at the clear night sky, bright with stars and serene in its expanse. And he wondered if he too was a body searching his spirit, wondered if the two had parted ways in a monastery in Douai.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow and favorite this story. And the guest reviewers I can't reply to personally, Thank You Debbie, Jmp, Beeblegirl, Thimble and Greenfern for your kind words and taking the time to share them with me. Greenfern I like your idea but as far I see I don't think I will be able work it into the story, but there is a sort of face-to-face coming ahead; I'll let you decide if it works :)**

 **THE NEXT UPDATE will be a little ways away, the next chapter is halfway done but I will not post it until the entire next arch is complete, sorry. I'll try my best to finish those chapters soon! [but please remember the size of these things, it will take time]**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Another long delay; yes I know, I'm horrible with these updates and apologizing won't change that. So...yeah...still sorry to keep you people waiting. Thank you all who read, follow, favorite and reviewed this story. Dear guest reviewers, Debbie, Beeblegirl and Greenfern THANK YOU for taking the time to leave me your thoughts and Greenfern when I found your second review it felt amazing to know that you've re-read the chapter and had found something new to share, Thank you!**

 **And thank you enjoyedit and Undertheoaktrees for your kind words and encouragement, it was a much needed motivation that you sent my way :)**

 **Okay, this is the last arc of this story; the next two chapters are done so updates might be quicker [here's to hoping I can get the rest finished by the time I'm done posting these.]**

 **Things are finally heading towards and getting tied-in to season 3.**

 **On with the story!**

* * *

 _ **Forty seven months into the war…**_

The din of the cannon fire shook the air.

Mud and blood sprayed onto his face, his arm rising to cover his eyes and blocking the sword on his gauntlet in the same instance. The blow glanced off and he jabbed his dagger in his opponent's guts, shifted his stance to take on the enemy behind him.

Cut that one down even as he engaged the one at his side.

There were shots fired.

Next man and then another.

Cannon fire, a distant boom.

He landed on his back and kicked out at the man looming over him. Rolled up to his feet and stabbed the man through with his sword, brought up the pistol he had kept in his boot and fired at the man running towards him.

"Fall back! Fall back! RETREAT!"

No! screamed back the soldier in him.

"FALL BACK!"

But it was Athos' voice, loud and hoarse over the cries that he could suddenly hear again. D'Artagnan shook his head; it was like emerging from under water, the noise suddenly loud and clear and the air a tangible presence on his face. He wiped at his chin, his lip was stinging. He looked around at the dead scattered about him, limbs, blood and uniforms; there was no ground visible beyond. And then he saw Porthos, a man at the center of another circle of destruction; still and straight in the evening light.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

The cry sharp and grating had been taken up by other French soldiers. D'Artagnan moved towards Porthos instead. His brows pulled into a frown when the other Musketeer didn't react to his presence and d'Artagnan rested a hand on his friend's shoulder, his heart skipping a beat in its already rapid pace when the man didn't respond to his touch.

"Porthos?"

The big man was staring ahead.

At the thick line of Spanish soldiers and the line of the cavalry behind them, the edge of a menacing wave that was ebbing steadily towards them; trampling over the dead and the wounded to add to that count some more.

"Porthos c'mon," he said.

Pulled at his friend' shoulder even as he grimaced at the sight of the approaching enemy.

With the shake of his head he turned his gaze to the man's face and felt something spiked sink in his chest. He had seen eyes of the dead less vacant than the ones that met his own, chilling in their blankness all the more for the life he knew was there behind the glazed look. Porthos' looked to him with no indication if he had seen his young friend and D'Artagnan's grip tightened, tugged just a little harder on the shoulder in his grasp.

"We need to go," he said.

Around him the last of the French soldiers were finishing off their opponents and moving back. His gaze flicked to the rider coming towards them and felt something ease in him at the sight of Athos. The Captain didn't dismount when he stopped before them; his eyes bright under the grime that streaked his face as his gaze went from one man to the other until it settled on d'Artagnan.

"We're moving four lieues," he said, "it's a climb but we can gain higher ground,"

The unasked plea was loud in his gaze; Athos was asking him to make sure they got there, him and Porthos. While he was glad he wasn't the only one who had seen the blankness in their friend d'Artagnan wasn't really sure how he was supposed to manage getting to the new position with the larger Musketeer when the man was looking through him. But then Porthos blinked rapidly and looked up at Athos.

"What?"

"Four lieues," Athos repeated and tipped his head in the direction behind them, "that way,"

Porthos nodded and turned, d'Artagnan followed but they stopped at the sudden burst of shots fired that echoed out to them. He turned to regard the line in the distance as did his friends, and his eyes widened as the soldiers at the front of the Spanish attack fell. There was silence and some more firing and more soldiers dropped.

"What part of retreat is so difficult to understand," Athos grimaced.

"Everything about it," d'Artagnan replied.

His face twisting in apology in the same instance for he had not intended to speak it out loud; but the glance his way from their Captain told him that the man understood, he was a soldier too after all. Some more men from the ranks of Spanish fell from the sporadic firing of unknown origins. It would have been heartening if not for more men simply filling out the emptied space.

"Are you going after them?" d'Artagnan asked.

He knew the Captain would not leave his men behind and that particular area where the firing seemed to be coming from had mostly been defended by the Musketeers regiment, until they had retreated from there as well. Athos looked from the enemy to the distant tree lines on either side. He shook his head.

"They seem well hidden. If they've found a position to help us from there I think it's better that way,"

"Then you're coming with us,"

It was not a question, but Athos still nodded and they turned away. They had ways to go, four lieues to be exact. Loading his pistol as he went d'Artagnan looked to their silent friend. Porthos walked on; feet moving among the dead underfoot with the practice of a soldier who had done it too many times. And d'Artagnan felt sick at the thought, tried not to think about how many they had lost over the years, how many they had lost just that day.

Starting from the break of dawn to this clash in the evening they had been losing ground and men all day. This was their fifth retreat, nearly half the men that had seen the dawn hadn't survived to witness the evening he was walking through.

Placing his pistol in his belt and he laid a hand on Porthos' back, almost a gentle touch in that space between his shoulders. But his friend showed no hint that he had felt it. D'Artagnan glanced up at Athos and met the worry in his gaze with the concern in his own.

"General Garth told me there are supply wagons on the way from Poitiers," Athos said, "They'll reach us by night,"

"If they're not ambushed," Porthos didn't look their way.

D'Artagnan winced but managed to turn it into a smile, with a pat on his friend's back he tried to look on the brighter side of things.

"At least half our supply reaches us," he reminded the man, "you read the letters the Minister wrote to Athos, we're lucky. Supply routes all over are compromised, only two or three supply wagons reach the others that are deployed and that too once in a while,"

"Sure, lucky," Porthos nodded.

But he still wouldn't look at them.

D'Artagnan turned his gaze away from the man and frowned at what he saw ahead. The soldiers had come to a stop, sitting on the ground and leaning against trees as they nursed their wounds. Chunks of crumbling bread were passed around and those more severely injured were seen to.

"Why have you stopped here?" Athos demanded from the nearest soldier.

"General Lantier ordered to camp here,"

"With the enemy right behind us?" snapped a voice from their back.

D'Artagnan turned and so did Athos; General Garth didn't glance their way as his eyes narrowed at the scene before him. The man's displeasure was clear in his scowl as he dismounted and pushed through the Musketeers who had begun collecting around Athos. The Captain looked to the General's back before he turned to d'Artagnan.

"We can't be staying here long, don't get too comfortable," he said, glanced at the other Musketeers, "all of you, stay sharp."

D'Artagnan caught the reins of Athos' horse as the man left after the General and he led the animal to the nearest tree. He knew it was a dangerous decision to stop when the enemy was so close, the point of this retreat was to reach higher ground for a better chance of victory and yet he couldn't deny the relief he felt when he finally slumped to the ground.

He ached.

There were cuts and bruises too but the bone deep ache of an overworked body was a dull pain that threatened to swipe out his senses. Pulling his knees up he rested his arms upon them and tipping his head against the tree at his back d'Artagnan closed his eyes.

Smoke, blood and screams greeted him and his eyes snapped open.

There was no escape.

Glancing at Porthos he found the man still standing, arms crossed as he leaned against the tree d'Artagnan was using as his backrest and dark eyes still staring in the distance. With a sigh d'Artagnan brought out his pistol and taking a corner of his shirt he wiped the handle first, picked out what was left of the flint and pulling back the frizzen he blew on the pan.

" _How many times have you cleaned those pistols tonight?"_

" _Respect your weapon and it'll respect you. Another thing you need to learn if you want to be a good Musketeer."_

" _All right, just so I know, this whole 'd'Artagnan the apprentice Musketeer' thing – how long does it last?"_

" _Well, as long as it's funny."_

His movements faltered, thumb tracing over the metal side-plate of his pistol as he remembered the man who had taught him how to clean his weapons, remembered the spark of life that was his presence, bright and defiant and cheerfully reckless in the face of death. His eyes stung and d'Artagnan glanced at Porthos. The big man had yet to move or say a word.

And not for the first time d'Artagnan wondered how much better would it have been if they had the man at their side who could ease them each with a smile, a quip, a touch.

* * *

There were too many.

A thick line of men, horses and canons from end to end; moving like a slow ripple arching closer to where the French forces had retreated. He had ordered a halt to the firing when the battlefield had been cleared, there was no use wasting shots and giving away their position. Aramis shifted his foot where the sole of his boot was pressed against the slanting tree branch and raised himself just a little higher with his back to the tree-trunk. Even as he reloaded the musket in his hands, the dark eyes went over the approaching army. He could find no way to stop the cannons there and the Spanish had been careful to watch their backs, there was no way there to go in and strike effectively.

Maybe he could infiltrate their ranks alone Aramis considered.

Set that idea aside and glanced back to where the retreating army had went; he eyed the crest of the rock face that he assumed they were trying to reach since it was the best chance they had to make a stand. Aramis shook his head, there were many such higher grounds in the area, he had no idea why they weren't chosen for the point to attack from right at the beginning.

Shouldering the strap of his musket he turned and dropped down from the tree, landing in a crouch. The weight of his cloak dampening the rattle of his blades as he straightened and a sharp whistle in the air questioned their situation; he answered back in a softer one and didn't even break his stride as three people in different trees jumped down to follow his lead.

Kitty, Devereux and Alois simply fell in pace at his side as they hurried deeper into the thicket. Away from the edge where the Spanish soldiers would come looking for the source of gunfire and closer to the gradual incline towards which the army they had been shadowing had receded.

"You would think they'd have waited up there for the enemy to come to them," Alois shook his head.

"You'd think they'd have waited for the supply for their artillery to reach them," Devereux muttered.

Aramis glanced up at the patches of the evening sky visible through the canopy as his mind went to the three he had sent to keep the supply routes clear for the latest provisions coming this way. It was a job becoming more difficult by the day. With the growing Spanish presence at Calais the supplies by the sea were out of question. But there were ambushes now on the land routes that he had previously deemed safe, where he had used a pair now he had to send three or four people to clear the path. Someone knew the routes of the supply wagons and Aramis' hand that wasn't resting on the hilt of his sword clenched into a fist; someone was using that knowledge to steal the supplies and most likely selling them to the enemy.

Aramis had a feeling that these lost supplies had ended up as being used against the French. He had advised the Minister that much, shared his suspicions in the same letters where he had urged him to order the Musketeers back to Paris. Rumors of unrest in the city had reached his ears but Treville hadn't replied on the matter.

Aramis stopped.

There were voices directly ahead. His eyes narrowed and with a nod of his head the three around him shifted quietly behind trees. With a hand on his pistol he stepped forward slowly, moved through the deepened shadows that the evening afforded him and neared the people he could hear just beyond. Taking a knee behind the foliage next to a tree, he raised his pistol and aimed it through the tangle of shrubbery, peered from the little space there was among the leaves and bit back a curse.

Aramis put his pistol back in his belt and retraced his steps.

"Well?" Kitty was the first one to leave cover.

"Musketeers," he said.

"They stopped?" Alois frowned, "here?"

"Why?" Devereux asked.

"To rest probably," said Aramis.

And hoped that was true, wished that the army would move on soon. His gaze went to the way they had come, the battlefield beyond that he couldn't see was littered with the dead and stretched too long. The day had seen too many souls depart; too much blood had been spilled. Deciding they would have a better chance of keeping an eye on the resting army from higher ground Aramis motioned for the people in his charge to move on ahead. Fast and silent they flitted through the stretching shadows in the thicket, skirting the edge of the impromptu camp they hurried up the incline. It was the sound of footfalls ahead that stopped them in their tracks.

Aramis slipped behind a tree, his pistol at the ready as the person neared.

Not one but three.

The three gaits he recognized.

Pressing a shoulder against the tree at his side Aramis peered out of the cover and found Mousequeton, Bazin and Planchet. He frowned, the men were early and without their horses. Aramis' mind raced to the army he was watching over, painfully aware that they could not afford the loss of supplies at the moment. Stepping out from behind the tree he looked for any sign of wounds on his men as Kitty pressed the muzzle of her pistol in Planchet's back.

"Really? We leave for a day and you don't recognize us?" the young man demanded.

"You're early," Kitty tipped her head to the side, "too early,"

"We were attacked," Bazin said.

Aramis raised a brow as the younger man caught his hair at the nape of his neck and tied it back again, the three of them seemed unharmed if a bit windswept.

"The supply?" Aramis asked.

"Safe and almost up there," Mousequeton nodded to the higher ground above them, "I thought the army would be there,"

"So did we," Devereux said.

"They charged at the Spanish," Alois shook his head, "again and again and again and again,"

Bazin winced, Planchet hissed and Mousequeton's gaze sought their Captain's in a silent inquiry; his lips thinning in displeasure at the strain of lives lost that Aramis was sure he could see in his eyes. Shaking his head Mousequeton looked away.

"Your horses?" Aramis asked.

"Left them at the base camp," Planchet said, "They were exhausted."

"We had to give chase to those lying in wait," Bazin nodded, "they knew the route well enough to find the perfect spot for an ambush."

"Mousequeton wounded their leader," Planchet wriggled his fingers as he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, "and they just scattered after that,"

Aramis looked to the older man, he had a feeling it was the same 'leader' that they had been coming across in these past months. Although he hadn't seen this man yet every time his people had reported a grim faced man, with dark eyes and a dark beard with a scar above and below his right eye. He was the one who had led the men stealing French supplies. Mousequeton nodded and Aramis bit back a sigh, it was the same man this time around and he had escaped; again.

"Caught him in the arm and in the side," Mousequeton said, "If he isn't dead he'd at least be out of action for a while,"

"Good," Aramis said.

Moved outwards from the thicket to where the trees were further apart and studied the army that had yet to move up the incline. He had assumed that they would be following them up soon but it seemed like the army hadn't re-started for the climb to a better spot. With a tilt of his head he motioned for his people to move back a little and nearer to the camp. There they could take up positions as the lookout for the army that was in the path of the Spanish.

"I really hope you know what you're doing Athos," Aramis murmured.

* * *

There was a rushing sound in his ears, a constant buzz as if he was standing near a high waterfall.

Porthos wiped at his brow with his sleeve and blinked against the haze in his view. He wondered if he had taken a hit to the head but brushed the thought aside as he pushed away from the tree he had been leaning against. A part of him was aware that someone had called out him, his name spoken out loud in a questioning tone in a familiar voice but he ignored that too. Weaving through the soldiers and horses he moved towards the incline they were supposed to ascend, that's what Athos had said, to reach higher ground.

It would give them a better chance, it could mean more lives spared.

It could mean that he wouldn't lose more of the men he had spent months with; it could mean that he just might get to see the faces around the camp fire this night that he had seen that morning. Porthos wiped at his mouth as he hunched forwards slightly, forced one foot in front of the other as the earth tipped into a gradual rise.

" _I was in the infantry. I won myself a bit of a reputation. He turned up one day and he... he offered me a commission in the musketeers."_

" _And that never struck you as odd? Go to him. Ask him if it's true that he abandoned you in the Court of Miracles. Make him tell you why he picked you to promote above all others."_

He shook his head.

His father's face, drawn, old and bitter swam before his eyes. Bitter and weary like his bones, sour and harsh like the bile in his throat and Porthos hissed; grabbed the tree branch ahead when his legs shivered. He pulled himself up and straight again, he had to get to the top, to safety; he needed distance.

The constant rush of wild rapids was loud in his ears.

The beat of his pounding heart its counterpoint.

" _Why am I a musketeer?"_

" _Because you are a great warrior."_

Was he?

" _Did you pick me because you felt guilty?"_

" _No. That's ridiculous. No man has ever worn the uniform with more dignity and courage than you."_

Has he really?

" _Did I earn my place in the musketeers on merit alone? – Answer me!"_

His eyes burned.

Where was dignity in this? Where was courage? Where was any sense in this?

Dead, there were so many dead; his face curled in a frown at the coppery smell that lingered about him, the stench of blood that had seeped into his skin and soul. Porthos pushed himself harder, step after step, longer and stronger. His pace picked up, maybe he wasn't a warrior, maybe he wasn't a Musketeer, maybe he was simply not made for this much bloodshed.

" _All these years I thought I got there on my own. But it was all a lie, just a fig leaf for your guilt."_

" _You're wrong."_

" _I didn't earn this. You just gave it to me."_

And he wasn't made for this.

He needed to get away from this madness.

Before he ended up like Charles with that goofy grin that had been tainted with crimson flecks, or like Etienne wide eyed in shock at the hole in his head, or like Pierre, like old Armand, like Francis, like Jean, like big Henri with the hole bigger than his fist in his side– Porthos gasped.

Gulped in a breath that caught in his dry throat and he coughed. Gasping and gagging he bent as his hands grasped at his knees and his head hung low between his shoulders. Sucked in breath after breath for air that just would not reach where it should. His head swam; flashes of light dotted his vision as his lips tingled. A tremble stirred in his legs, crawled up his spine. And suddenly he was the thin little boy at a corner in the Court of Miracles, too hungry to feel it any more as he sat with the grimy wall at his back.

" _I regretted what I'd done immediately and came looking for you, but you'd disappeared."_

" _But you found me later and made me a musketeer."_

" _Yes."_

" _Because you felt guilty?"_

" _Because you deserved it. I would never give the uniform to someone who didn't – you know that."_

His knees buckled and hit the ground.

The impact jarred lose a groan and closing his eyes Porthos tipped forwards, hands curling into fists where they were pressed into the soil. His heart raced in his chest, anger pulsing in his veins with the echo that boomed in his head like cannon fire. A snarl escaped him, his fist rising on its own before he punched the ground, hard.

He hit the earth before him again and again, fists impacting against the hard packed soil until it gave way to a hollow, until his hits sunk in the softer earth beneath and flecks of dirt clung to his lips. His shoulders ached. With his hands buried in the soil he had loosened Porthos groaned, grasped at the sand that slipped through his fingers. His armour had grown heavy over his sweat soaked shirt, the metal clunky and too big over his shivering frame.

" _It must hurt. Cry if you want."_

" _No thank you."_

" _What is your name?"_

" _Porthos; we need to get out."_

" _What are you going to do? Punch through the walls?"_

" _If it comes to it."_

But there were no walls there.

There was nothing for him to hit, to fight back against – he felt his gaze blur with the wetness in his eyes. And he sat there on his hands and knees, clutching at the soil he had loosened as eyes clenched shut against the fear; against the feel of standing in an expanse with not a shred of protection against the elements, against the enemy, against anything that might consider him weak and for the taking. It was the dread of the harsh wind curling around a young bare back, it was the terror of an orphan child left alone in the depths of Paris, it was the scorn for a soldier who didn't know of his father and the fear of that soldier of friendly fire aimed his way.

It was a fear he had long forgotten until he had ridden out of a monastery in Douai nearly four years ago.

For the first time in nearly four years Porthos let himself feel the fear he had ignored, the fear that he had learned to lock away until it had sparked anew when the man he had trusted the most had walked away from them. He shuddered and sat back, wrapped his arms around his middle hoping to hold together something that was breaking in him, reverberating with the echoes of his loss, his pain and his fear. And Porthos could feel that fear trickle out and freeze in his veins, could feel its chill seep into his bones. With his chin resting on his chest and his arms doing their best to hold onto his heaving ribs Porthos gulped air against the sob that rose to his throat.

It didn't stop the low moan that pushed past his lips and it didn't stop the wetness from his eyes to spill out.

He was a life in all its fragility.

Exposed.

Bare and defenseless.

His face was wet, his hands aching where they clutched at his own doublet.

There was no one else to hold him together.

He was alone.

" _It's been two hours – you haven't said a word. Whatever the captain told you must have been significant."_

He let a go a slow breath, tasted the salt of his tears on his lips.

" _There, there. He's not actually dead."_

A presence by his shoulder, a pat on his back, the man leaning against him as they stood in the snowy clearing watching d'Artagnan duel with the Red Guards, the bump of a fist against his own as they returned successful from a mission. A flash of a grin sparked in the dark of his mind.

" _Porthos my friend, I think it's time for us to go fishing for a patroness."_

The anger, the simmering rage fought back. His fingertips dug in his doublet, twisted in the leather where he held himself. Porthos wished he could somehow show that man just the hint of the fury that he carried in his chest. If he could only let out the wrath that burned in him.

" _Admit it. I frightened you."_

" _Ahhh...I was quaking in my boots."_

The snort escaped unchecked.

Like a conversation in a look shared.

" _Easy does it yeah? It's a Requiem Mass, not a party at Madame Angel's."_

Porthos' eyes flew open.

He didn't want to think about that, he didn't want to greet the warmth that was spreading out in his veins. He could not accept the strength that it offered. Porthos shook his head and sat straighter, unwound the arms he had wrapped around himself and rubbed at his jaw.

" _Did someone punch me?"_

" _Don't be ridiculous. I'll go fetch some water."_

He smiled and winced.

There was no way he could touch upon those memories. He was not going to let them do what they were so efficiently doing to his raw nerves, that man in his absence should not have the ability to sooth and sew the gaping wounds of his composure. Porthos set his jaw and clenched his fists, tight enough to hold onto his slipping anger.

" _Porthos! There goes my needlework."_

Even when he had been ready to murder Emile in his rage, that - the wound that he carried had been his once friend's first concern. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to remember how his wounds and hurts were an instinctual concern for that man and it took all of his effort to not ground his teeth at the thought of it.

" _Oi! Mind my wound."_

" _Mind my needlework,"_

How could he do that? How could he leave them then – leave him – knowing there were so many wounds in their future – that there was death coming their way?

" _Porthos, that's enough...unless you want to kill him."_

That unspoken promise in his casual tone, the easy assurance that he would help him with the murder if that was his choice – Porthos growled and wondered if he had imagined it, if he had been wrong in believing that that was the one man he would turn to should he ever needed to dispose off a body.

Had he made a mistake in trusting the people he called his brothers?

Had he only imagined the loyalty, the bond that they shared?

" _I'm leaving for Morocco this evening."_

" _Do you actually know anything about the place?"_

" _No, but I'll learn. And it will be my children's home. They will belong there. You should search for your own home too, one day."_

" _You're looking at it."_

" _These are not your people Porthos. However hard you try, you will never truly be one of them."_

" _I'm a Musketeer. That's home enough for me."_

Was it still?

Porthos surged to his feet, the rush of blood leaving his head spinning and his arms swinging out to catch his balance. He forced out the wobble in his legs and made them take his weight. Straightened his back and pulled in a steady breath, waited out the swaying of the world around him. He was good at that, for all his flashing temper he knew he had the patience to outwait the troubles thrown his way.

And he remembered Athos, terrified and guilt ridden when they had believed d'Artagnan lost in the snow-slide.

And he remembered d'Artagnan, dazed after his first battle, remembered the impulsive embrace of the younger man in the Captain's tent when Porthos had returned with their supplies years ago.

Wiping a hand down his face, his other came to rest on the hilt of his sword at his side. His fingers wrapped around the hilt and he pulled out the weapon, felt its weight settling in his grip as naturally as breathing. Porthos looked from the blade that he hadn't cleaned to his surroundings, the cooling sweat on his skin left gooseflesh in its wake as he took in the glow of the moon. He was alone, standing in a clearing that was silent save for the bugs of the night that had awoken with the darkness.

Looking up at the starlit sky he wondered when night had fallen before he looked back at the blade in his hand and swiped a gloved thumb over its edge.

" _This has seen me through many campaigns. You will do me a great honour by bearing it in battle."_

" _I'll wear it with pride,"_

He may not have known his own father but he did know a father, a man who had believed in him, had seen his worth when his own flesh and blood had made him question it. Porthos sheathed his sword and turned back to the way he had come, by the light of the moon he retraced the prints his boots had left on the ground. He knew he was not made for this much violence, he was aware that he may very well be walking back to his death but that way also lay his family.

A slow smile curled at the corner of his lips.

They may be out numbered and out gunned but Porthos knew what he was fighting for. What he had always fought for even when he was a five year old orphan in the streets of the Court of Miracles. He picked up the pace as a dusty afternoon came to his mind, a packed inn and the scared villagers of Pinon staring back at them.

" _You are defending your homes, your children; your lives. You have something worth fighting for."_

Porthos grinned.

* * *

He stood with his arms crossed before him, his hands clenched into fists where they were tucked at the sides, out of sight from observing eyes. General Garth was red in the face, General Lantier as well, and Athos looked away from the two. The soldiers were watching them, some from the corner of their eyes while others stared openly as the Generals snarled and glowered. Athos cleared his throat, brow arching when the two men looked his way.

It would not do to air the discord in their command.

"All I'm saying is that we can regroup and attack from here," General Lantier snapped, "there is no sense of wearing out our soldiers by forcing them up this hill,"

"What we need is a point of vantage," General Garth bit out, "we need a place to defend,"

"We are already defending our country!"

"I sincerely hope you are being deliberately obtuse," Athos said.

"I do not answer to you Captain,"

Holding back the flinch at the way the title had been spat out Athos pushed away from the tree he had been leaning against; his steady gaze not leaving the General's face who swiped a hand over his balding head and looked away. This wasn't the first time he had noticed blatant stubbornness for the wrong approach in this General, he had after all been the loudest voice in favor of the recently launched and failed attacks and Athos had been wondering about his absurd recklessness for weeks now.

"You know we are in no condition to attack," he said.

"What we need is for them to come to us," General Garth said, "we need them tired and in our sight for easy picking,"

"Our men are exhausted," General Lavelle spoke up, "we won't make it up in time,"

"Not if we waste that time arguing," Athos said.

Glanced up at the sky that was deepening its blue, there was already a star or two blinking back at him. He looked back at the General who stepped closer to him and was tempted to roll his eyes at the rage he saw in that face.

"Are you implying something Captain," General Lantier asked.

His hand going to the hilt of his sword at his side and eyes narrowed.

"I am not implying I'm stating it quite clearly," Athos looked him in the eyes and didn't move, "we are wasting the time that we need to get up this hill,"

The face before him twisted into a frown and Athos could read the suspicion in the lines that it drew. But that was not all, he could see it in the glare meeting his own, something that almost looked like fear. He watched the man step back a little, as if startled, and it was there in his stance, an odd defensiveness that Athos couldn't quite place.

He shook his head lightly just as the air shattered with a resounding boom.

Athos ducked instinctually and turned with a sword in one hand and his pistol in the other. It did nothing to help him as another hollowed sound echoed close and screams bounced off the pistol shots piercing the air. Men were running, fighting, dying, Athos shot a Spanish soldier clear through the head even as he met the blade swinging to his chest with his own.

Quickly dispatching his opponent he moved to the next and then another. Taking two soldiers at a time, kicking away the third he had no time to consider where the attack was coming from. There were Spanish soldiers everywhere, for each he felled there seemed four to take his place. His muscles burned; his throat dried up as every breath felt like scalding shards grating through the pathway to his chest. Where his heart thumped in a wild rhythm as his gaze shifted from his opponents to the faces beyond, some of them familiar but not the ones he sought. Porthos and d'Artagnan, he couldn't see either of them. Athos blinked against the sweat that trickled in his eyes and ducked under the two blades that came for his neck; they slid across each other in a whine of steel skimming along the edge of his hair.

Dropping to a knee Athos cut through the soldier before him, tugged him forward to bury the blade he carried in the soldier at his back. Breathing sharp and shallow he took to his feet and caught sight of it at the last minute from the corner of his eye.

He rolled with the hit when the butt of a pistol cracked against his skull.

Light and pain exploded in his vision.

His knees buckled as one hand went to his head, pressing against the wound. His sword fell from his grasp as he cradled his head, clutched at it from both sides in an attempt to somehow stop the reverberations he could feel down to his teeth. Clenching his jaw tight he forced his eyes open, flinched against the stab of light and the world that spiraled in a haze of colour and sounds. And something deep in his mind, something innately human told him that he was in trouble. His stomach lurched, stench of ash and blood clung to the roof of his mouth as bile threatened to clear it away.

Pursing his lips against his rebelling stomach Athos forced his feet under him, pushed to stand up and pitched forwards instead, his legs giving away under him like half filled water skins. The impact pulled out a cry past his control as he landed on his side; his insides churned and soured. Pain rode the nauseating wave and threatened to wipe him away.

Athos dared not open his eyes; the world wouldn't keep still even then.

And beneath it all there was a fear taking hold of his heart, the fear that neither of his brothers had made it to him.

It was as natural for them as breathing, to find a way to each other through the chaos; at least it had been until _he_ had left them. Pressing hard against the throbbing in his head Athos prayed that Porthos and d'Artagnan would survive this war.

It was his last thought before the silence took him.

* * *

He stood under one of the trees, at the edge of the dark line they cast as the evening deepened slowly into the night. The tips of his fingers were pressed white against the tree bark, its rough surface splintering under his nails where he clutched it in a desperate attempt to keep himself from stepping out of his cover.

His friend had stopped beating the ground.

Aramis bit his lip, caught it between his teeth and bit down on the words that wanted to tumble out.

Bit harder when Porthos' shoulders heaved in a manner he never wanted to ever associate with his strong friend.

And his eyes burned with a wetness he wouldn't let fall, his ribs stiff and tight against the reasoning that was forcing him to stand his ground, to stay where he was. He shivered, trembled with the ache of watching his brother suffer and willed and wished and prayed with everything he was that his friend could somehow find the solace he could not offer him. And that thought, that reminder of his apparent uselessness left him hating himself just a little more.

He blinked rapidly as Porthos surged to his feet.

Following his friend's line of sight he looked to the sky as well, eyes widening in surprise at finding the night that had fallen about them. Aramis looked back when Porthos moved, he let go a breath as his friend retraced his steps and grimaced at the taste in his mouth. Spitting blood he gingerly touched the lower lip he had bit on and wiped at the cut there even as he began walking after Porthos.

He had followed after the big man hours ago; they had covered over two lieues, nearly three and with the growing distance his worry had stretched. Even across the space between them that he had maintained to keep his cover, even with the receding light and no clear view of the man's face he could tell there was something wrong with his brother. And he had never been so heartbroken at finding himself right about something.

Porthos was hurting.

And he couldn't help.

Not in the way it would matter.

Aramis silently followed the musketeer, footsteps sure and light in a way he had mastered even before he became a soldier and alert for any threat that may come their way. In this at least he could help his friend. In this at least he could protect him.

Moving as one with the shadows of the forest he tracked his friend in the distance, the burden of what he had witnessed was a heavy stone lodged between his ribs. He shook away the blur that threatened to come in his view and kept the other man in sight as they walked for hours, breaking into a light run often. But the way back seemed somehow longer and Aramis was considering if the man he was following had lost his way.

He was watching Porthos contemplate his direction when it reached him; the smell of gunpowder that coated the air, covering it in thick layers from where the soft breeze blew on their left. He could tell the second Porthos smelled it too for the man's head swung that way in synch with his own. And Aramis was moving that way with that ingrained knowledge about his friend that told him Porthos was doing the same. A grim smile flitted onto his face despite the circumstances, for even unknown to his presence it seemed his brother could read his thoughts.

But they were not happy thoughts, Aramis' eyes narrowed as he noticed the haze in the distance. Curling in the wisps of moonlight that shone through from the gap in the leaves above and he knew this haze was too pungent to be anything but smoke. Danger and death lurked that way and it beckoned them close with the threat of loss. Aramis didn't stop to confirm if Porthos was quickening his steps, his own pace picked speed and he veered off towards the side, if this was the French campsite then his people should be nearby.

Aramis stopped in his tracks when a figure appeared from among the trees beyond and even as he raised his musket the person nearing him didn't stop. It was Alois, running with no care for the heavy footfalls that could be heard in the distance and when the older man came to a stop before Aramis it took him minutes to find his voice between the heaving breaths. He was sweating heavily and there was a stain on the side of his face but his eyes were clear.

"An ambush," Alois said, "there was – ambush Captain,"

Laying a hand on the man's shoulder Aramis steadied him despite the fear that had set his own heart racing.

"Breathe –"

"Captain I've – been lookin – there 'ere –we –"

"Breathe Alois,"

"They –came from –" he gasped.

His breaths were too deep and too fast and Aramis grasped the back of his neck tugging his head down, holding him in place with a hand at the nape of his neck and the other pressed to his heart. He needed answers; he didn't need his man fainting. It took long seconds and Aramis reined in every instinct that demanded action and explanations, instead he reached for the patience he had perfected while lying in wait for his targets during his years of service as a soldier; it was something he had to rely on often in these past years.

"Alright, I'm alright" Alois nodded slightly and stepped out of his hold, "thank you,"

He looked shaken still but not panicked, his gaze was far steadier. There was gratitude there that Aramis brushed aside and raised a brow in silent inquiry even as he stepped past the man towards the direction he had emerged from. If it was as bad as his mind was conjuring up he needed to get to the battle ground.

"The Spanish," Alois said as he fell in step with him, "they attacked from three sides, had pushed the cannons up the slope,"

"The French hadn't moved on," it was a statement from Aramis not a question.

They hadn't really covered a steep incline before stopping to rest; the Spanish wouldn't have had much problem with bringing the cannons close. Aramis grimaced and refrained from shaking his head at the string of bad decisions he had been dealing with from the French command on this front.

"We couldn't even warn them before the Spanish opened cannon fire," Alois sounded tired even as he stepped ahead and peered through the faded moonlight that had spilled through the canopy, "this way Captain,"

Aramis followed him, his eyes tracing the dried blood on the side of the man's face.

"And the damage?" he asked.

"They were still counting,"

"Among us?" Aramis asked.

Alois stopped, turned to look at him before a hand went to his head even as his face softened.

"Some wounds but we'll live," he said.

And Aramis felt a bit lighter, yet the pressing concern for the safety of two dear friends pushed him to move on ahead. It wasn't long before they reached the point where his people had collected; only there were two men there, Mousequeton and Devereux.

"Captain,"

In two voices in one word, there was relief, hope and sense of purpose found.

Aramis shook his head in silent awe at the trust these people had in him and looked them over for wounds. There were nicks and cuts, deeper gashes bandaged close but nothing life threatening.

"The others?" he asked.

"Went to patrol the camp the French had set up," Mousequeton said.

"And assess the damage," Devereux added.

Aramis couldn't stand there and wait for his people to return with the information; he needed to see how bad it was and most of all he needed to see if his brothers were safe. His heart stuttered at the thought of losing either of them and his feet turned to the direction of the French camp, a prayer beating in his heart for the survival of the two he had left there.

He met Bazin, Planchet and Kitty on their way back.

"It's bad Captain," Planchet answered his unasked question.

"They've lost nearly half the men if not more," Bazin added, his grim face softening slightly, "but I did see the young one – what's his name – he's battered but alive."

And Aramis had to lock his knees for fear of those joints melting in relief.

"I was the last to fall back once the French retreated," Kitty said, "I saw the Spanish taking some prisoners too,"

Half the men dead and some taken prisoners, Aramis bit back a sigh, this was worse than bad. His mind went over the possible safety for those left alive, then there was the matter of a possible chance to free the ones taken, he would also need to replenish the supplies of his people –

"Rene," Kitty stepped closer to him as her eyes sought his gaze.

There was something in those eyes that drained Aramis' blood down to his toes even before she had said the words out loud.

"We didn't find The Captain of the Musketeers among his men at the camp." Kitty said.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **So my limited research says that 1lieue is equal to around 3.25 kilometers and 5 mile is around 8 kilometers, so in his daze Porthos covered 5 miles that's over 2 lieues. Tada! :)**


	12. Chapter 12

He was surrounded by idiots.

Well intentioned and harried but still idiots.

Because they had no idea what they were talking about. There was no way there was even a hint of truth in what they said. His brothers had not been taken by the Spanish, they wouldn't have let themselves be taken because no one captured Athos and Porthos unless they let them. Except for that one time in Alsace, but then they had freed Porthos that same night; d'Artagnan rubbed at his back as he remembered the fall that had landed him before the entrance of the tunnels that ran under that stronghold.

"If he was able to don't you think Athos would be commanding his men," General Garth asked.

D'Artagnan glared at the man from the corner of his eye and wiped at the trickle of blood on his cheek. The General had taken charge of the Musketeers as well as General Lavelle's men after the other General had succumbed to his wounds.

"They were not taken,"

"Then the other reasons would be..."

D'Artagnan suppressed a shudder – the other reasons for their absence weren't allowed either. Jaw set in defiance and heart thundering in his chest d'Artagnan walked away from his stand-in Captain; ignored the sympathy in the eyes of his fellow musketeers who had survived and barely held himself back from snapping at them. He nearly hissed when a hand on his arm stopped him mid stride. His glare had Cornett looking away from him and d'Artagnan followed his gaze towards the wounded around the fire who had managed to keep up with them in their retreat. And those who hadn't been able to – he shook his head, hands curling into fists.

"We had to d'Artagnan; it was the only way to survive," Cornett said, "we had to,"

"There is no justification for leaving your brothers behind," he growled.

Pulled his arm away and moved on, not wanting to hurt the man with unchecked words, he had liked Cornett ever since the once cadet had sought him out after spotting Porthos drunk and ready to brawl at the inn in Paris. Pulling his thoughts away from their last night in the city where he had left his bride h decided that e would check the wounded that remained. Hoped that his brothers were looking for him too and that they would find him. But a scared, restless part of him whispered that their camp wasn't that large, that there weren't much men left living anyway, it wasn't as if Athos and Porthos would have to cover much ground in their search to find him. With a growl d'Artagnan shoved those thoughts away, he would find them here and if not, then he was going back, he would bring them back, there was no way he would leave them behind – wounded, or captured or d – he swung around and slammed his fist in the nearest surface.

The tree shivered, the tree bark cracked where his hit had landed.

His eyes stung with unshed tears.

"d'Artagnan,"

His head swung up so fast it hurt his neck. Blinking rapidly to clear the blur from his sight his face split in a grin even as he pushed away from the tree and towards the approaching man.

"Porthos," he covered the distance between them and pulled him in a quick embrace; stepped back and looked behind the bigger man, "where's Athos?"

Porthos was staring in the opposite direction, brows pulled into a frown as his gaze went to the injured and haggard soldiers beyond. Feeling something sink in his stomach d'Artagnan grabbed his friend by the shoulder and gave him a not so gentle shake.

"Where's Athos?" he asked.

"I –" Porthos looked back at him, "I don't know,"

That something sinking in his stomach grew spikes, tangled with his insides and d'Artagnan's grip tightened on his brother.

"He isn't with you?"

"No, I –" Porthos's gaze flicked back to the soldiers, "he's not with you?"

The world swayed suddenly and d'Artagnan frowned when large hands grasped him by the arms. Porthos was saying something, in the light of the moon he could see his lips moving and the concern in his dark eyes, but all his mind could understand was that they – he –had left Athos behind. His friend was back there, his brother, his Captain, the man he had followed in one form or another ever since he had made his way to Paris years ago – and he had left him behind, wounded probably, dyeing maybe, or in the hands of their enemies by now.

The sharp sting on his face left him hissing.

"There ya go," Porthos said, pulled him close and ducked under his arm, "There you are. Stay with me yeah? We'll get you stitched up in a minute; just stay with me d'Artagnan."

"Wha –" he tried to get his feet under him.

They kept tripping up as his friend dragged him along, the pull and the rocking was not helping the sudden queasiness in his stomach.

"We'll get you stitched up in a minute,"

"Why?"

Porthos eased him down in front of a soldier he vaguely recognized, the man's fingers were already stained red and d'Artagnan didn't want him anywhere near him with a needle, not with that much blood on his hands. He licked his lips and swallowed thickly.

"Why do I need stitches?" he asked.

Porthos pushed him to lie down on his back.

"You're bleeding,"

He glanced down where his friend pulled away the sticky cloth from his side.

"Oh," he nodded and looked back to the soldier preparing the needle, "hands; clean your hands and that thing,"

"I know what I'm doing,"

"Clean – them,"

"Look here –"

"They always cleaned 'em," he shook his head, "Lemay and Ar –"

"Just clean the damned hands and the needle," Porthos snapped.

D'Artagnan glanced back at him, read the anger and displeasure in the lines of his face and remembered they were not supposed to say _his_ name. He looked away, turned his head and stared at the fire, wondered if _he_ was the smartest of them all, at least they knew where _he_ was, they knew _he_ was safe; not like Athos.

D'Artagnan winced when the needle pierced his skin and as if waiting for just that reminder the pain that he hadn't felt from the gash in his side sparked with a vengeance. His mind cleared but his thoughts drifted, danced in the glow of the fire and he wonder if _he_ had been here then would Athos have been left behind. If they were whole, then wouldn't at least one of them would have been with Athos?

"Shouldn't have left him behind," he murmured.

And let the heat pooling in his eyes slide down the side of his face, not dwelling onto which of his absent friends he was talking about.

* * *

Round, yellow, ripe and bursting – blowing up into a hundred pieces.

Had Porthos finally missed his target he wondered, no, he would never volunteer for that in the first place. Athos shook his head and winced.

Lifted a hand to his head but felt the pull of something tight around his wrists and stopped. Tried to move his head instead, heavy and pulsing and ready to explode like a melon and Athos wondered if he could find a merciful shot to help it along. Slowly pulling in a breath he let it go and stilled his efforts. Waited for the sinking feeling to abate and tried to understand where he was, grasping at the soil between his fingers and breathing in the lingering smell of gunpowder.

The retreat, the ambush, the end of a pistol flying towards his face.

Athos sat up with a gasp and curled forwards when the sickening pain lanced through his head. Breathing heavily through his nose he swallowed against the temptation to throw up that swirled and rose from his gut like a tide. Keeping his eyes clenched shut he sat back slowly, fingers tracing over the restriction around his wrists, skimming over the prickly rough surface that told him he was not among friends.

"Finally awake then," something poked him in the side, "I thought we'd just have to bury you,"

There was a touch to his words, a layering and fumbling as if he hadn't used them often. Among enemies then Athos realized and forced his eyes to open. Pushed against the suddenly heavy eyelids and managed a hazy view. The toe of a boot nudged at him again.

"Still alive?"

Athos grunted; he wasn't sure if he could speak without throwing up.

"Name?"

He was sitting under a tree – a camp his mind noted, probably still near the French army – the glow from the campfires barely reaching him and even though he was glad for the respite it offered his aching head Athos resented the weak glow for the limited view. It merged the human forms before him into dark blobs, there was no way he could see how many of the Frenchmen were captured.

"Your name,"

Or maybe it was the wound to his head that was limiting his sight he wondered and peered up at his captor. The man was outlined by the fire's glow behind him and Athos winced, groaned when the booted food kicked at his ankle. The blow wasn't even that hard but it rattled up the nausea churning in his stomach.

"Benito," another voice called.

And the sharp exchange in Spanish flew over his head. Athos kept an ear to that even as he tried to decipher the faces a little distance away from him. There were two or three men tied up to a tree with an equal number of guards and another group beyond. Keeping his head low he glanced from the corner of his eyes to see if there were other prisoners with him and a telltale rope that had been cut off told him there had been at least one person tied up at his side. His mind stumbled over the details that he tried to stow away; he would need them for escape if the rescue was not on time that is.

Athos smirked lightly; he could imagine Porthos and d'Artagnan making their way to him right at the moment.

And suddenly a hand in his hair jerked his head up. Athos hissed, blinking against the black spots dancing before his eyes.

"Is he telling the truth?" it was the second voice.

The words were smooth here and the face too close to be a blur. Another tug and his head protested vehemently.

"Is he telling the truth?" asked the man again.

Athos' gaze slid from the hooked nose man who was frowning at him to the moaning heap he was pointing at. He couldn't clearly see who the beaten man was but he vaguely remembered a word sounding like Captain said between his captors.

"Is he telling the truth?"

"Luys," Benito said, "No creo que él sepa lo que estás pidiendo,"

The man glanced at Benito before his gaze turned back to Athos.

"Are you a Captain or is he lying?" Luys clarified the question.

The hand on his head clutched harder, fingers twisted in his hair and yanked. Pain burned in his scalp and pierced through the wound, Athos had a feeling the trickle down his face wasn't sweat.

"Are you a Captain?"

Athos grit his teeth and glared back. He would not answer and sign his own death orders, if they weren't sure of his position they wouldn't be sure of the information they could extract from him. He just had to wait for Porthos and d'Artagnan; only a few months back hadn't they managed to retrieve Porthos from a fort in Alsace just few hours after his capture, this was an open camp. Easily reached and raided Athos had no doubt that help was coming.

Lost in his self-reassurance Athos pitched forwards when Luys let him go. His head swam and throbbed as he braced himself on his hands. The kick to his side took his breath away and he nearly landed on his face from the force of it. Fingers digging in the ground Athos pulled in a measured breath and lost it in the next blow that connected with his side again. And he knew, somewhere in his mind that another would follow but it still knocked his knees from under him.

"Are you a Captain?" Luys demanded, stepped nearer, "Did that man lie to me?"

"I didn't! I didn't lie!"

"Is that man telling the truth?"

His breath came in gasps and each one with a grating edge. Athos licked his dry lips and clenching his numbing fingers he braced his throbbing side with his arm, made himself sit up as that deep, sometimes bitter sense of dignity that he had been brought up with fanned the pride of the soldier he was. He would not grovel and he would not let this man have the satisfaction of standing over him.

"Speak," Luys grinned down at him.

Pulled out the pistol in his belt and cocked it. Athos looked from the weapon to the man, pushed back the pain and the sick feeling in his gut and raised a brow. His heart plummeting as Luys smirked and turned. In a single shot the man his captors had beaten was dead.

"Speak," Luys said, "or I have plenty Frenchmen to spare,"

He looked over to the next tree before he looked back at Athos.

"Benito get me another soldier,"

"Yes, I am a Captain," Athos bit out.

Luys grinned.

"...of?"

"The Musketeers," and he put every bit of pride in that.

It was Benito who gave a little laugh; he thumped Luys on the back and burst into excited Spanish as he nodded at Athos. There was unmistakable sense of smugness in the man's face that Athos found nearly childish.

"Yes, yes, you were right. Taking the wounded as prisoners had worked well," Luys turned away from him, his dark eyes meeting Athos', "and it seems we've had quite the find,"

* * *

He looked away.

Didn't point out the glistening trail he could see on his brother's face and refused to acknowledge the wave of helplessness it brought. He had left, he had walked away from them and it may have cost him a brother. Porthos couldn't offer the younger one platitudes nor could he risk offering him comfort, it would be both their undoing.

Taking a deep breath he looked from the dozing wounded to beyond the campfire, searching for any familiar face that could help him fill in the pieces of the devastating picture he could clearly see. And it stirred the pool of guilt in his heart when none of the eyes that met his held any blame in them; no one it seemed had realized that he had left them. Catching Cornett looking their way Porthos motioned the other man over and stood, the flash of fear in d'Artagnan's gaze when it darted towards him stopped him halfway.

"Not going anywhere," he said, refused to let guilt slip into his voice, "not abandoning you kid,"

His heart constricted when d'Artagnan nodded and made no attempt to change the term he had used for him, Porthos hoped that the fiery spirit was still there, he hoped that it was just dampened by all the bloodshed and not completely put out. Patting his young friend on the chest he nodded towards Francois.

"We're just gonna have a chat," he said.

The other Musketeer crouched down beside him and grimaced at the line of dark stitches that had closed up d'Artagnan's side. Porthos met the gaze when it turned to him and raised a brow, his silent question pulling out a sigh from the other man. Cornett wiped a hand down his face.

"I'll tell you what I told him," he said, "we had to; retreat up this hill was our only chance,"

Porthos may not have been there but he could see their numbers having been cut down and it was clear in the shadowed gazes of those about him that the losses were heavy. But that was not all he had observed, he saw no severely wounded in their midst, none of those who would have to be dragged away were there.

"We haven't sent anyone back to collect the wounded," it was not a question.

"I don't think there's any wounded left back there," Cornett said.

And Porthos' blood ran cold as an image of a wounded Athos lying in the battlefield while a Spanish soldier approached him to deliver the deathblow flashed through his mind.

"Athos isn't dead," he said.

"No?" Cornett looked to him, his face twisting in a grimace as he shook his head,"then he's captured,"

"He's not," d'Artagnan ground out.

He grasped Porthos' hand that was meant to push him down, to pull himself up instead. The way his face paled at the motion had the big man grasping his brother's shoulder, the only brother left to him his mind supplied and the grip tightened.

"He's likely wounded," d'Artagnan breathed out, "maybe he found some help, and maybe someone came across Athos and is helping him right now while we sit here thinking he's dead or captured by the Spanish."

"d'Art –"

"No Porthos," he grasped at his collar and gave him a shake, "remember the snow-slide? You and Athos thought I was dead. Remember that? But I'm here now."

"Yes you are,"

"He probably got separated and is hiding somewhere," d'Artagnan breathed out, "waiting for when it's safe to follow us,"

It was the best they could hope for. Porthos patted his friend on the shoulder and stood, if their brother was actually out there somewhere, wounded and looking for a way back to them then he was not going to sit there and wait for it happen. He stopped abruptly in mid-crouch when there was a pull at his arm and cursed under his breath when d'Artagnan pulled himself up after him. Grabbing the swaying man lest he dropped face first to the ground Porthos waited for the other to get his wits about him. Watched the younger man swallow back the nausea that was clear from his pursed lips and eyes that were clenched shut.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"We're going to look for Athos," d'Artagnan let go of his arm and took a step forwards, "are we not?"

"No you're not," General Lantier said.

Porthos glared at the balding man who had come to stand before them. The General's armour was splattered with blood but it seemed none was his own; Porthos had to suppress the urge to change that.

"And you're gonna stop us?" he asked.

His words just shy of a growl.

"Yes," said the General, "I will, as your superior officer I won't allow you to go back down there where the Spanish expect us to come collect our dead. I've been told our supplies are waiting for us at the top and that is where we'll be heading tonight."

"So now you want to reach the hilltop?" d'Artagnan scowled.

"I'm not your Captain musketeer, I don't appreciate this attitude," General Lantier's eyes slanted in contempt as he stepped closer to the younger man, "You'd be wise to watch your tone,"

"As would you," Porthos stepped up next to his friend.

His hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword at his side.

He was tired of this man and he was done wasting precious minutes that could mean the difference between life and death for his absent friend. If he had to cut down a General and give up his commission as a Musketeer he would do just that if it meant he could save Athos; by the way General Lantier back-stepped he knew that the decision was obvious in his glare. A smirk pulled at Porthos' face as the General's face twisted in a frown.

"If you leave I will mark you as a deserter,"

"You do that," d'Artagnan said and bent to collect his weapons.

Pride swelled in his chest and Porthos knew that if he was to lose all he had worked for then this was the best way for it to go. He reached out to help his friend, steadying him when he straightened as General Garth walked up to them, Cornett at his heels.

"Why am hearing of deserters in our camp?" asked General Garth.

"These two are leaving," General Lantier said, "against orders,"

"I didn't give them any orders,"

"What?"

"I'm standing in for their Captain until his fate is clarified and I don't remember giving these two any orders," General Garth said and looked to the two musketeers, "I take it you're going to look for survivors?"

"We are," d'Artagnan was still glaring at General Lantier.

And Porthos rested a hand on his back, partly to calm him down and partly as a preemptive move should the younger man launch at the General.

"I'm afraid I can't order you to do that," General Garth shook his head.

Porthos could feel d'Artagnan bristle under his hand and curled it in a fist to grab on to the back of his doublet. There was something in the way General Garth had spoken that had pricked his mind.

"I cannot order you," General Garth said, "it's foolish and likely to end in your deaths,"

There was something in the dark eyes that met his own.

"It is not an order I can give with a clear conscience,"

"I volunteer," Porthos said, caught the flash of something close to approval in the General's face and nodded, "I volunteer to go back and search for survivors along the way here."

"So do I," d'Artagnan added quickly.

"I volunteer as well," Cornett said.

General Garth looked from one man to the next before he gave a sharp nod.

"The rest of us will be heading up, meet us there by sun up. We won't wait for you with whatever decision we come up with there," he said, "General Lantier I suggest you get your men ready,"

Porthos could have sworn that the balding General was cursing when he turned away and he could have sworn he had caught General Garth smirking at that.

* * *

He tried to tell himself that it was a good thing.

It was a relief that he hadn't come across his friend yet.

But relief was far from his mind as Aramis stepped over to another corpse, bent to roll that one over and found another face that was not of his brother. And yet it was one more that would haunt him. He had been a soldier long enough to know that death was inevitable in what they did but that had never lessened the weight from his shoulders of a life lost. He couldn't save them all but it didn't mean he didn't want to.

Straightening back to his feet he muttered a little prayer for that fallen soldier and moved ahead.

In the silver light of the moon he looked for his friend among the bodies, hoping and praying that he wouldn't find the man there. The cold breath of distant ghosts trickled down his back and he tried not to think how similar it was to his nightmares. Ever since he had stepped into this world at the outer edge of where his friends lived sleep had been hard to get, and when it did grant mercy enough for an odd stretch here and there it always left him in a clearing. Sometimes cold, other times warm or even heavy with rain but it was always a clearing filled with the dead where he searched for the men he called his brothers.

"Captain?"

This was what he feared, that he had been too late, or too far, or he hadn't been alert enough or fast enough, his pistol had stalled, his aim not true, he –

"Captain?"

He blinked at the face before him. Bazin's eyes held concern when he met his gaze and Aramis vaguely registered there had been worry in the voice that had addressed him. Forcing his own voice smooth and controlled he made sure that his thundering heartbeat couldn't be heard in his words.

"Yes?"

"I said we didn't find him here," Bazin said, "the Musketeer's Captain isn't dead."

"Good," he said.

Turned away to look at the remains he had been searching and held back a flinch as the phantom call of a raven echoed in his head. The stench of blood spilled and the warmth in the air from the cooling bodies tried to pull him back to face the dead he could never completely put to rest. Aramis averted his eyes and turned his back on them, pushed back the fear and the uncertainty that hadn't really left him ever since he had broken away from the sanctuary that was his brothers.

He had made his decisions and he would live with them.

"We head for the Spanish camp," he said.

Noticed the subtle shift in the faces before him as the worry he hadn't noticed before melted away from their edges. And not for the first time Aramis was reminded of the position he held. He was supposed to be the man with the plan and the answers; he was not allowed the luxury of thinking beyond that. Stepping away from the dead at his feet he laid a hand on Mousequeton's shoulder and pulled the man around; refused to let himself feel the haunted look that met his gaze even as he nodded in silent acknowledgement of the specters he could see in the other man's eyes.

Aramis stepped ahead and away before he turned to regard the six people who awaited his orders.

"We'll go around and move in from the back of the camp," Aramis said, "and we go in quietly, no firearms, no contact that could raise alarm, they shouldn't know we're there until they have to."

"And that will be...?" Kitty asked.

"Most likely when we've reached the prisoners,"

"And the Musketeers' Captain?" Alois asked, "If they know who he is, he won't be with the rest of them,"

No they would want to pick his mind Aramis knew that, they would likely keep him separate and alive. If they hadn't already tortured him to death Aramis' mind supplied and set alight every protective nerve in his body. The words past his lips were a promise.

"I will find him," he said.

* * *

The chair wasn't uncomfortable nor was the light.

He could feel the heavy gaze boring into the back of his head as Luys left him bound to the chair in the General's tent; yet the officer behind him hadn't said a word to him. Keeping his face carefully blank Athos watched the man walked past him to round his desk and take a seat behind it. As the General sat staring at him Athos stared right back.

And let his smugness show in his eyes; silence had never been a problem for him.

He still had to suppress the shivers of pain that threatened to show themselves. He would not allow it; he would not allow the man before him to see the sore haze that covered his mind nor the throbbing in his side that protested him sitting upright.

"How does it work?" the General asked.

"If you are willing to change places I could give you some suggestions,"

The man chuckled even as he tipped his head in acknowledgment.

"I'm afraid this will have to do,"

"A pity,"

"Yes, well we're all bound by our duties,"

"If you must then," Athos said, chin rising in defiance even as his vision threatened to be washed out in white, "We shall begin."

The General sat back, a smile on his face as he shook his head slowly.

"I am General Ramiro, Captain Athos of the Musketeers, and you do not command me; in my own tent no less,"

The glow of the lantern flared and ebbed and Athos bit back the wince as his headache flared with it. He hoped that Porthos and d'Artagnan would hurry or at least that this General would get bored with him. He blinked away the bleary cover that came over his vision and wondered if another blow to the head would offer him merciful unconsciousness.

The rustle of papers grated against the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

"You have been running a confounding play Captain," General Ramiro said, "Utterly perplexing,"

Athos stared back, wondered if this was a trick to make him divulge information. He kept his silence even as the General looked to him expectantly.

"You will not acknowledge it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about,"

"No?" the General held up a sheet of paper, "Supplies from nine months ago reached your camp, supplies from seven months ago found your camp too, supplies from six months ago, three months ago and now I'm told the supplies from Poitiers have reached their destination too,"

Athos raised a brow, didn't allow his relief to show at hear the end of the declaration. He flinched when the paper came down on the desk with a hard thump and the General leaned forwards.

"How is it that full supplies are reaching your camp when they had failed to find their way to other deployments since the start of this year?"

He had heard of supplies raided and lost on their way, he had been told that the routes were compromised but he hadn't imagined that they had been this better off. Their supplies had been delayed, some lost had been lost but he had never considered the shortage the General was hinting at for the others deployed.

"You will tell me now that you have no idea how this is happening,"

"Of course,"

There was no need to lie even though by the look on the face before him it seemed that General Ramiro didn't know that. Athos felt a twinge of worry as those dark eyes darkened further and he wondered if the information given to him was fabricated.

"There are people," General Ramiro said, "people who have been touring the supply routes and defending the materials sent. They are not there by your orders?"

It was hard to keep the surprise from his face but Athos made sure to offer only a blank stare, neither confirming nor denying. If the General was convinced that he knew nothing about this apparent patrol then he became useless and Athos knew what happened to useless captured soldiers. He forced himself to not glance at the entrance to the tent and silently urged his friends to hurry.

"So how does it work? How have you set up this patrol? How do they report back? How many men have you set aside for this?" the General demanded, "Do you rotate the number? Which routes have you under watch?"

If he had the time and energy to spare he would have questioned the sanity of the man before him, but as it was Athos held his peace. If this General thought he had valuable information it meant that death at least was far off for him. He still eyed the papers strewn on the desk of the Spanish General, looking for anything that might be helpful once he was rescued.

"You will not tell me about these people," General Ramiro nodded, "but you will talk, not with me perhaps but you will tell us about these scouts."

"I don't know anything about these men," Athos said.

Let the twitch of a smile skitter across his face and watched with satisfaction as the General grimaced, the man wasn't convinced of his innocence yet. Athos could play it out, stretch it long enough for Porthos and d'Artagnan to reach him.

"We have ways Captain as you might have heard,"

"You can beat me into the night but I'm afraid it wouldn't get you anything," and there was a truth behind his words.

"So you will not make it simple for all of us and just tell me,"

"I have nothing on the matter to tell you," he said.

Let his honesty show although he was sure it only confused the General further. The Spanish leader pushed away from his desk and stood, his dark eyes met his own gaze and there was almost an apology there; and Athos felt his heartbeat quicken.

"If I must then," said General Ramiro and walked towards the entrance of the tent.

Athos strained to listen to the hissed conversation and not for the first time cursed his limited knowledge of the other language that he once could have expanded; and in his mind flashed a familiar face but Athos shook his head. Wincing at the pain it caused him he breathed through the churning in his gut and focused on the barely audible words. Yet he understood nothing accept for a name that was tossed in often – g – wah – he tipped his head to the side and closed his eyes –grr – grimaud.

The sound of footfalls had him sitting straighter.

"Well Captain Athos it seems our time together is shorter than I expected," General Ramiro said.

And nodded to the man behind Athos. It took every shred of his self-control to bite back the desire to resist when hands suddenly clamped onto his arms. He could take a beating, he told himself and soon, soon he'll be out of this, Porthos and d'Artagnan would be there any minute he reminded himself and glared at the General.

"We need you to talk Captain,"

"I have nothing to say,"

The hand on his arm clenched almost painfully but it was the yank that left him hissing. His ribs and head protesting vehemently as Luys swung him around to face him. The sneer there wasn't heartening.

"You will find that you do," said the man.

And before he could form a reply Athos was dragged out of the tent. His feet tripped over each other, the earth wobbled beneath them and he clenched his eyes shut against the dizziness that hit him. His stomach flipped inside in the way he was all too familiar with and Athos pursed his lips against the threat roiling there. His knees buckled when Luys came to an abrupt stop and Athos felt himself falling forward. It was instincts that saved his face as his bound hands took the brunt of the fall.

He hoped the beating would render him unconscious.

The thought wiping out from his mind when a hand in his hair pulled his head up.

"How many men are posted on the supply routes?" Luys asked.

Athos blinked.

There was the sound of pistol cocking somewhere.

"How many men?"

He blinked away the haze, eyes focusing on the pistol in Luys' hands. In the glow of the camp fire a few feet away he could see that it was not pointed at him and followed its direction to the two soldiers bound to a tree.

"Do you remember the number now?"

"No I –"

The shot echoed to his bones.

His gaze burned, from the pain of his wounds or the loss of a soldier for his silence Athos couldn't tell. He swallowed hard.

"I don't know anything about it," he said.

He didn't care that his words were his death sentence.

"I know nothing of these patrols,"

"Wrong answer," Luys pulled out another pistol.

And Athos shook his head, as much as the hand clenched in his hair and his aching brain would allow. He had to make them understand, he had to make this man see.

"This is the first time I've heard of this patrol – I know nothing –"

The next shot silenced his words.

Took his breath with away as another of his soldiers dropped to the ground.

Luys let him go with a shove and Athos simply stared, swayed where he sat as his gaze fixed onto the dead captives. Two more men were dead for him, because he couldn't convince his captors that he was not as useful as they had assumed.

He shuddered.

It broke in a gasp when the boot hit his side.

The pain exploding at the impacting reverberated through him as he landed on his back.

Athos wished he would just pass out.

"It seems your fate is out of our hands Captain Athos," Luys grinned at him.

He loomed over him with a sword in hand, but it was the glowing red tip of it that arrested Athos's gaze. He wondered where Porthos and d'Artagnan were just before the world scorched out.

* * *

Downhill was the tricky route he had learned.

When going up, moving against the earth at least there was the strength of purpose behind it. But downwards was where you were at the mercy of some invisible force, your direction decided for you. There was nothing to do but simply manage what was happening. With arms thrown out slightly and the toes of his boot digging in the ground as his feet threatened to trip over themselves even as he stepped over the foliage coming in his way; Aramis let the incline speed up his decent as he made his way down to the Spanish camp.

The sound of grunts and breaths and crushed plants underfoot told him that the others were keeping up with him. In the cover of the thinning forest they closed the distance much faster than Aramis had expected and yet not fast enough it seemed. Slipping to a stop by the last of the trees at the bottom of the hill he raised a fist in the air as a signal to halt his company.

The moon cast a stale glow across the more or less open expanse where the dead still lay and Aramis braced against the reminder of just how many they had lost since that day had begun. Pulling his gaze away he looked to the Spanish camp that was set up at the start of the slope, the fires blinking in distant offered a washed out glow as shadows moved through the tents and animals. The camp had thickets on both sides; a cover that he was sure would be patrolled; that was why they had taken such an arching route down. As much as he disliked it, the dead that lay on the battlefield behind the camp were the only chance of them sneaking in. He had a feeling that this would be the least guarded edge of the Spanish camp since they had seen the French retreat up the hill and had followed and dismantled even that stalled attempt to find a place to make a stand.

"Devereux and Alois are with me," Aramis said as he turned to the people with him, "We find the captives and we free them, at our signal Kitty will relieve the Spanish of their horses,"

"So the moment there are shots fired?" the woman quirked a brow.

"Precisely," Aramis said and looked to Mousequeton, "you still remember how to blow up a cannon?"

"I could rig more than one,"

"You'll be short on time, work fast,"

"We can help," Planchet grinned.

Aramis shook his head.

"You'll be gathering information," he said, "Find the Generals' tents and wait for it all to start, maps, letters, grab what you can and get out of there,"

He looked to each of the faces in turn.

"That goes for everyone," Aramis said, "once your work is done get out of there. This is a distraction and nothing more, this is not an attack."

He noticed the stiffness in Devereux's shoulders that had been there since he had first spoken melted, and the larger man tipped his head to the side as a flash of teeth offered a rare grin.

"For a second there I thought you'd forgotten that," he said.

"Especially since it is one of your pets in danger," Kitty added.

And yet they were ready to follow him into this, Aramis shook his head slightly, suddenly glad that even in his recklessness he had not forgotten the safety of the people who apparently trusted him this much. It was a risk going in, there work was in the shadows and announcing themselves would only escalate matters. He knew this would at best be considered the act of the French army and would only add to the already burning fire, but if it leads him to Athos it was a risk he was ready to take.

"Talented as you all are," Aramis said, "Six people claimed by no crown cannot take on an army,"

"Is that meant as a challenge?" Kitty raised a brow.

"As an order," he clarified, "fall back once your part is done,"

"And we'll meet back here," Alois asked.

Aramis gave a nod.

"Good luck," he said.

And he turned away.

Didn't slow down as the two men fell in step with him and they wound their way through what scant shadows the moonlight had left with the sporadic trees. He didn't slow down until he could see the figures in dull metal and hear the murmur of voices from the Spanish camp. Reminding himself to keep his attention on the living instead of the dead that surrounded him Aramis crouched low, keeping close to the ground he moved among the fallen soldiers, eyes searching the edge of the nearing camp even as his nostrils flared at the smell of decay that was all too familiar.

He would not and he could not think of _that_ place he reminded himself, not now when Athos' life hung in balance.

Voices became clearer, filling the stillness of the air like trash tossed without care. A shadow moved ahead and Aramis dropped to his belly, pressing flat against the ground he found himself looking into glazed eyes. He nearly choked on the gasp he swallowed.

" _Rest now Marsac, with your brothers."_

Aramis shook his head; there was no rest for him. No relief, no forgiveness, not even death was an option until he had seen his brothers home from this war.

"Captain?"

"Sshh," he looked over his shoulder and found the two men at his heels.

He could not afford to lose his mind, not when there were people counting on him.

With a nod towards the guards who had forced him to duck Aramis wordlessly explained his move. He heard rather than saw Alois and Devereux shuffle around at his feet before the bodies on either side of him shifted and the living appeared.

"Three guards," Devereux said.

"Make that four," Alois said as he ducked his head, "it's a long strip to guard. I would have posted more,"

"And seven of us in all," Devereux said, glancing over his shoulder as if he could see the others somewhere among the scattered dead.

Ignoring their mutterings Aramis timed the guards instead, counted his breaths to measure their pace as the two nearest soldiers posted on watch walked the edge in some loosely allotted distance to each. He waited until he was sure that he had the rhythm set in his mind and nodded to the men at his sides. When the next time the two guards neared the point just ahead of him Aramis moved ahead and as the men turned back in opposite directions he darted across the invisible border of the camp and to the carts beyond.

Scrambling behind the wagons Aramis stayed low to avoid casting any shadow on the cloth roofs before him. He counted the time of the guards return trip. The tug on his sleeve brought his attention to Alois and he raised a brow as the man pointed to one of the uncovered carts. It was loaded with small barrels, most likely gunpowder Aramis assumed but that was not what left him gritting his teeth.

It was the symbol carved into the wood, the fleur di lis that announced that these were actually French supplies, his suspicions had not been wrong.

Part him wanted to blow up those supplies right there but the rest of him, the part of his mind that could feel the weight of what rested on his shoulders held him in check. If it had been Porthos and Athos at his side he would have been gleefully striking the flints, playing deaf to his friends' better judgments. But that Aramis, the one with the almost naïve recklessness in his freedom of having nothing to lose but his own life hadn't shown up in nearly four years. And that was because there were other far more precious lives he had to think of now.

Looking back to the guards who had turned around again Aramis took the chance and slipped deeper into the camp, his men just a few steps behind him. Back straight, pace calm and head tilted just a little towards the shadows, it was easier to walk among the few off-duty soldiers still awake than to look for objects to hide behind. Most of the men were collected near camp fires; some were turning for the night and in simple linen shirts with less of their weapons on display Aramis was sure the three of them could be passed off as such a group.

Stopping at the edge of the one such throng of bedrolls he let his gaze roam over the camp, searching for the French prisoners. And there they were at the edge of the forest, tied to the trees and guarded by more men then he would have liked. When he glanced at Devereux he could tell that the other men had spotted their targets as well. Aramis moved away from the soldiers who were halfway asleep and once he was sure they were out of hearing distance he turned to the men at his side.

"Set them free but don't let them rush," he said, "wait for my signal,"

He didn't want to lose the chance of getting as close to Athos as possible, he couldn't risk his friend being put in more danger if he was already separated from the rest of the prisoners. As if they understood his reasons the other two simply nodded and parted ways behind him. And stepping ahead Aramis approached the nearest guard with a smile and a nod.

"Everyone accounted for?" he asked in Spanish.

"All the ones that are still alive," the other soldier shrugged and nodded towards the forest behind him, "can't say for sure of the one Luys took back there,"

"General's orders," Aramis offered a smile.

Not letting the words fall in either a question or a statement.

"Doubt it," the Spanish soldier grimaced.

And Aramis felt his heart sink, maybe they didn't know who Athos was, maybe his friend was tied to one of these trees where the glow of the campfires hardly reached. But then if there was a slightest chance that his brother had landed himself in trouble just by being his noble infuriating self he would still have to check where this Luys person was and who he had taken with him.

"I should see he doesn't get carried away," Aramis said, glanced towards the captives, "they should just decide what to do with this lot, maybe we'll finally get some sleep then,"

"You can wish," the Spanish soldier grinned and rolled his eyes.

Aramis shrugged and moved on ahead; the smile fading from his face and his steps quickening as he moved through the trees guided by the moonlight that spilled through. There was a distinct sound in the air that had both his heart and pace racing and Aramis neared the figure moving ahead; the crack of leather in the stillness of the forest was only drowned out by the muffled groans from the man on the ground.

Aramis slowed with his pistol out and aimed at the man he assumed was Luys, who was beating the prisoner on the forest floor. His gaze flicked that way and the silver hair in the moonlight announced clearly that this captive was not Athos. Gritting his teeth Aramis switched his pistol for his dagger; he could not risk the shot, not when he knew the others would take it as a signal to begin and he hadn't found Athos yet.

Luys straightened, his arm raised with the belt arching back.

And the dagger flew from Aramis' hand, finding home in Luys' back.

The man grunted and fell forwards as the silver hair prisoner scrambled to get to his feet; wide eyes looking from Luys to Aramis as he stepped closer. The Frenchman groaned and nearly fell to his side, growling and staggering away when Aramis reached to steady him.

"You're not French," he gasped.

Raising a brow Aramis moved over to Luys as the man cursed and fumbled to grasp his pistol from his belt. With a shake of his head Aramis kicked the weapon out of his hand.

"You're not Spanish," said the French soldier.

"I'm both and I'm neither," Aramis said and looked away from the man cursing at him in Spanish, "did they take away any prisoners?"

"The Musketeers' Captain," the old soldier groaned as he grasped a tree to steady himself.

Biting back the flinch Aramis tried his best to not let his fear show at those words, crushed the shiver that threatened to come in his voice.

"Where?" he asked.

"This one sent him away with a rider," the soldier said and turned his back to them, moved towards the sanctuary of the trees beyond, groaning as he went.

Aramis looked back to Luys feeling his heart sink to his boots even as he sidestepped the swipe of the wounded man's dagger and kicked that weapon away too. He heard rather than saw the French soldier behind him stop in his shuffle.

"The bastard branded him and sent him away," he whispered.

But Aramis heard it well enough.

And his blood froze in his veins. His gaze slid back to the moaning figure sprawled face down at his feet and every thought in his head swirled around the words he had just heard – branded him – sent him away – branded him – Aramis crouched by the man's head and met the glare Luys sent his way. The man's shirt was turning dark where the dagger had buried in his back, there was blood staining the corner of his mouth. It was only a matter of time before he died.

Reaching out to lay a hand on the hilt of the dagger Aramis didn't miss the man flinch – branded him echoed in his mind – Aramis shook his head.

"Where did you send the Captain?" he asked in Spanish.

"Go to hell,"

"You first," Aramis shrugged a shoulder and twisted the dagger.

And the man screamed. With a glance towards the camp to make sure no one was coming to check on the noise Aramis turned his attention back on Luys – _branded him_ – he shook his head again, stayed his hand where it still gripped the hilt of the dagger.

"Where did you send Captain Athos?"

Dark eyes full of hate bore into his and Aramis had a feeling he was staring at his own reflection, staring at the contempt for the man he had become and wondered if he should be more disturbed over that realization – _branded him_ –he turned the dagger.

Luys moaned and chocked and gasped.

"Where did you send him?"

"Post near – Douai," he breathed.

"Thank you," Aramis said

And stood as he pulled the pistol out of his belt, aiming it for the man's head he fired the shot that would ignite mayhem in the Spanish camp.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you Jmp and Beeblegirl for taking the time to leave me your thoughts**.

 **My Google translated Spanish:**

 _ **"No creo que él sepa lo que estás pidiendo,"**_

 _ **"I do not think he knows what you're asking for,"**_


	13. Chapter 13

It burned.

The point where the heated blade had touched him.

His skin was on fire there, at the front of his shoulder near that place where his arm joined his shoulder and the muscle beyond was taut with the blistering agony that was jostled with the motion. It nearly blanketed the pulsing bruise he could feel at the side of his chest. Athos bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming or throwing up. The horse under him didn't slow its pace and the body at his back showed no signs that it had realized he wasn't conscious anymore, or the person didn't care Athos reminded himself.

He was among enemies and the agony beating in his flesh in tune with the clomping of horse hooves told him that he was on his way somewhere. It seemed his friends hadn't been able to reach him but he knew they were on their way, he just had to forestall his captors.

Trying to keep himself as limp as he had been up till then, Athos pressed his chin a little harder where it rested against his chest and forced his eyes open. The sensation of moving hit him like a wave and he grimaced, the bile rising to his throat again. Peering to the side he blinked at the glint of shifting moonlight onto polished metal, it was the hammer of a pistol, a pistol hanging from the weapons belt that had been digging in his back.

A slow smirk played on his lips.

And Athos turned in a flash; bound hands grasping the weapon as he elbowed the man behind him. The hit to his jaw was expected but sickening dizziness that exploded was s surprise. Gritting his teeth Athos held on to the weapon as the man behind him tugged and yanked and shoved at him to pull free the pistol. The world lurched in their struggle until Athos threw his full weight against his captor and they landed in a heap on the ground.

Rolling aside to avoid getting kicked in the head as the horse neighed and clomped in surprise.

He came up with the weapon in hand.

Trembling, gasping and swallowing thickly.

Athos squinted in the moonlight, the pistol weaving in the air as he tried to aim for the man before him. Pain beat against the inside of his head, speared his side where the boots had connected and his sight wavered like disturbed water. Pulling in a sharp breath and he fired; the crack in the air resounding against the pounding in his head.

Before something slammed into his side and brought him to the ground.

Belatedly it came to him that his shot had gone wide as hands shoved him face first into the earth and a knee pressed between his shoulders. He felt the trickle before he felt the sting of the blade against his neck and Athos stilled.

"So you do wish to live," said the man pinning him to the ground, "I thought you were seeking death before they could get their hands on you."

"Where," Athos swallowed back the nausea, "where are you taking me?"

"To where all those who are branded go," said the man as he grabbed Athos by the arm and yanked him to his feet.

His head swam and his knees buckled and the bile he had been trying so hard to keep at bay burned past his throat. Coughing and gagging Athos emptied his stomach on the ground but the stirring in his gut wouldn't stop. It pulled at his empty insides and his abused muscles and the ache in his side blazed in a white hot pain, snuffing out his consciousness.

* * *

He hadn't glanced back at the fleeing French prisoners and he hadn't waited to see the Spanish running around to put out one fire or another. The booms were still echoing out as he had slipped away, he had not looked back at the chaos his people had caused.

He hadn't stopped at the rendezvous point.

And none had questioned his decision to keep moving on to their base camp. He needed horses, and medical supplies and weapons; he needed Athos within his sight hours ago. If the Spanish had deemed his friend important enough to be taken then they would not outright kill him he was sure, it bought them time but what they could do to him in that time – his jaw clenched at the bitter solace he was offered.

Aramis pushed through the dense foliage and slid down into the hollow where they had left their rides and supplies that morning. Even as Planchet handed him all the papers they had stolen from the Generals, Bazin moved ahead to strike up a fire in the small pit. Aramis sat on his knees and opened the first folded paper and tilted the map he found towards the flames coming to life; studied the lines in the glow that was brighter than the moon in their shaded hideout.

It was probably important but not what he was looking for.

Dropping that one he searched through the letters and picked out another folded sheet, tossed that back and plucked another one. His eyes widening even as his mind fully deciphered the markings; they were routes from within France, supply routes to be exact and Aramis bit back a curse. His hand didn't shake but a shiver ran down his spine as he traced one of the thicker lines, and there it was, a dent where the ink would have been just a little darker if he was looking at it in the sunlight. It was in the same place where it was on the map that Treville had sent to him, a small bump in the copperplate that had been used to print it. And he was sure that same copperplate had been used to print this map as well.

"Captain?"

He looked up at Alois.

"The horses are ready,"

"I need –"

He stopped when Mousequeton handed him the satchel that carried his writing supplies. With a shake of his head he pulled his thoughts away from a spy that was apparently at the palace back in Paris and considered the first map he had seen. The markings there looked less like roads and more like a root fanning out sporadically.

"Looking for something special?" Kitty asked.

"An outpost near Douai," Aramis didn't look away from the map.

It was an odd spread of black lines, most of the shorter ones that pulled away from the main road ended abruptly to nowhere. Aramis frowned; it was almost like – oh.

"The river," he murmured.

"We could all use a wash," Kitty nodded, her nose wrinkling.

Aramis looked to her and turned the map her way, the others pulled closer too and Aramis tapped the point he was assuming was the starting spot. It was the post near Douai that had given him the idea and it was the knowledge that Athos was heading to that place that brought the bile to his throat. His brother could easily be slipped out of France and onto a slave ship from that place.

"They are using rivers," it was Devereux who spoke up and tipped his head towards Aramis' finger still pressed onto the map, "that is Calais,"

"And we know Spanish presence is growing there," Alois nodded.

"They're bringing in supplies," Mousequeton grimaced, "that explains the recent fire power,"

But it was worse than that Aramis knew, the Spanish were gaining footholds, they had spies close to the war council and who knows how many eyes and ears at the palace. There could be Spanish soldiers in hiding in Paris for all anyone knew. Pulling back the map of waterways Aramis flipped it over and jotted down his findings on its back, after nearly four years of using their codes there was no need for the cipher he carried. He wrote down his warnings and paused at the end of it. He needed the Minister to understand the danger the royals – Anne and the Dauphin – could be in, he needed the man to understand the danger the Musketeers – that Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan – could be in with an enemy possibly at the top of their command and Aramis refused to examine if his fear and desire to protect was stemming from anything other than fealty to the crown.

He put the ink leaden tip back on the paper and didn't use the code as he wrote the simple words, prayed that the Minister would call the King's regiment back to the king as he put the words on paper that plainly said: close ranks.

Folding up that map he placed it in the one that was a copy of the French supply routes and took the seal that he carried with the cipher in a pouch at his belt. Closing the papers with the wax he handed them to Kitty.

"Ask Madame Pascal to make haste on this one," he said.

"We are not going to Douai?"

"Alois, Devereux and I will head there," Aramis said, "you're going to Les Routes Perdues,"

"I'm the best tracker you have," she reminded him, "you'll need me to find this post near Douai,"

"And you're our fastest rider; I need you deliver this missive and find your way back to these three," Aramis tipped his head towards Mousequeton, "him, Bazin and Planchet will stay with the army,"

"We should be leaving soon then," Planchet glanced towards the way they had come, "the Spanish would be attacking them any time now,"

"Their prisoners reaching them first would be warning enough," Aramis said and gathering the rest of the papers he handed them Bazin, "use these if you have to and give them a sign about where their Captain is being taken. A regiment at our back would be helpful if we'll have to storm a fort,"

"You think the entire regiment would come to free one man?" Mousequeton asked.

Aramis nodded without hesitation, something old and deep that refused to die stirred in the space between his lungs as a promise he had neither heard nor uttered in nearly four years echoed in his mind.

"Of course they will," he said, "they are Musketeers,"

* * *

It was thick, the lump in his throat.

Hot and prickly as he swallowed it back and grimaced as the stench around him went down with it. The moonlit area from where he had walked away in a daze reminded him of another time, of another search. Of moving among the scattered dead that even the cold had failed to preserve, of a dread so deep it clamped onto each breath until he could only gasp in the chilled air.

Porthos shivered.

There he was again; searching for another brother in the aftermath of a massacre and praying just as he had done then that he would not find him there. Yet the alternative was not a pleasant thought. If only he hadn't been this late – he should have been there – he shouldn't have left –

"I should have stayed at his side," d'Artagnan said.

Porthos looked over his shoulder at the younger man and saw him draw a shaky handy through his hair. The dark eyes didn't meet his own as the gaze flitted over the grey faces, the trees, the sky, Cornett's back in the distance, anywhere but at Porthos.

Suppressing a sigh the bigger Musketeers turned fully and covered the distance between them in a few quick strides, not missing the wet sheen in d'Artagnan's eyes as they finally met his own. The younger man shook his head.

"I tried, I – there were too many," he shook his head again and dropped his gaze to the ground, "should have tried harder,"

Coming to a stop before his friend Porthos reached out to lay a hand at the nape of his neck, squeezed gently when the bent head didn't rise. His mind searched for words that eluded him. This was not d'Artagnan's guilt to carry; it was on him, it was his fault, his absence, his fear that had driven him to near desertion. Unbidden in his mind flashed the face of the first person he linked to that act and Porthos flinched. He remembered the haunted blue eyes, the haggard face framed by strands of pale hair as _he_ alone offered Marsac any shred of compassion.

" _Just hear him out. If you're not satisfied, I'll do whatever you suggest."_

A plea on behalf of the condemned based simply on old bonds of brotherhood echoed in his mind and Porthos refused to acknowledge how much he needed that assurance now from the man he would not name; not even in his thoughts. Ruthlessly pushing down his own remorse and the need to abate it he gave the back of d'Artagnan's neck a squeeze.

"You did the best you could," he said, "you couldn't have tried any harder,"

He knew that, was sure of it even if he hadn't been anywhere near that fight. But the bent head twitched in a derisive sort of way and his friend didn't look up. Shifting his grip slightly Porthos tipped up the narrow face with his thumb under the tightly clenched jaw. It was the light scruff along the line of his chin that reminded him that his brother was still too young, while he and Athos and even _that man_ had seen campaigns yet this was d'Artagnan's first war. He had never lived under the shadow of death, nor breathed its scent every day as it waited in the wings, hadn't lived a life that moved from camp to camp with no end in sight, he had never felt the weight of lives cut down in heaps before his eyes. D'Artagnan never before held a brother as he gasped his last and Porthos prayed that he would never had to.

"Hey," his voice was gruff, "look at me, look at me."

There were too many emotions swirling in the gaze that obliged and looking at his friend's shoulders sagged under misplaced guilt, his arm instinctually curled around the freshly stitched wound in his side while the cut on his cheek bleeding from the sporadic rubbing of his face, Porthos suddenly felt very old.

"Athos isn't here; he's not dead, not yet. That means he's taken and that means we'll find him," he said, "but whatever has happened it's not your fault. You couldn't have tried any harder."

"I cou –"

"You couldn't have tried harder," his voice was steel cutting through the argument, "you did the best you could."

"I –"

"You did the best you could,"

Porthos met d'Artagnan's glare steadily, watched the younger one let go a breath, eyes closing against all that sought to spill out as the younger man leaned into the touch he offered. When his eyes opened again d'Artagnan gave a sharp nod and cleared his throat.

"You're right,"

"I am," Porthos said.

Let his hand slide to his brother's shoulder and squeezed, silently promising that they will find Athos and bring him back where he belonged. The resolve that gleamed in d'Artagnan's eyes gave him strength but it did nothing to ease the guilt in his heart as he stepped back, head tilting slightly as his brows pulled in a frown.

It was distant but loud enough, although it was a sound he could not place.

Porthos looked to his friend as the echo of booms reached them one after the other.

"Another attack?" Cornett hurried over to them.

"It's too far," d'Artagnan shook his head.

"At the Spanish camp," Porthos guessed, "maybe they're under attack."

"I thought we were moving away," Cornett looked from one man the other; "I don't think the General would have sent out a party to attack the Spanish camp."

"They wouldn't have," Porthos said.

And turned to peer at the trees beyond; if it was indeed the Spanish who were in trouble it could be their chance to save Athos. Porthos had a feeling that if he returned with the news of their friend's capture even General Garth wouldn't be able to find them a way to get their brother back. He was painfully aware of the dead and the wounded in the French camp, even with the supplies that have apparently reached them he knew that able bodied men were in short supply. Ammunition would need someone to use it and the command would not risk it for those who had been taken. With a nod to himself he looked over his shoulder at d'Artagnan.

The man was too pale in the glow of the moon but his eyes were hard, there was no way he could send the younger Musketeer back.

"Warn the Generals," Porthos said to Cornett even as his gaze remained on d'Artagnan, "The two of us will scout ahead."

* * *

He came around with a gasp.

Groaning and curling forward as a grip gentle yet firm held onto his shoulders, keeping him from folding in on himself. D'Artagnan groaned, one arm curling to press against the throb low on his side and sucked in a breath when that pain burned anew under the pressure.

"Easy, easy, you gotta breathe through it," said the voice in his ear.

"Porthos I –" he bit his lip to keep from crying out loud.

"Easy..." Porthos didn't let go of him.

Instead he found himself tipped forward until his forehead rested on his friend's shoulder and he let his weight sag against him. His side felt as if it was going to rip itself apart. A large hand ghosted over the back of his head before it came to rest on his back.

"Better?"

"Perfect," d'Artagnan said.

Leaned back even as he tried to hold back a wince. Blinking in the morning light he looked to the other man, gaze taking in the sunken look around his eyes and the deep shadows that appeared high on his cheeks where the beard hadn't hidden them. But it was the concern in the gaze fixed on him that left d'Artagnan frowning. Licking his dry lips he refused the water-skin his brother offered.

"What happened?"

"Drink,"

With a huff he snatched the water and gulped it down, the sudden thirst surprising him. Experience told him to slow down and with an effort he pulled the water away from his lips, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before he looked pointedly to the other Musketeer and raised a brow.

"You ripped the stitches and lost a lot of blood," Porthos said, "I brought you –"

"We're back!" He realized, noticed the sun that hadn't fully risen, "We're back at our camp!"

He surged to his feet, pressing a hand against the wound in his side even as his other reached out to grasp tree for support. Ignoring the men looking their way his gaze looked for what his heart knew he wouldn't find here. Because he remembered, remembered the freed prisoners from the Spanish that had met them in the dark cover of the trees, the echo of chaos from the enemy camp and he remembered searching the faces of those fleeing captives for one dear face that was not there.

Eyes flashing with barely suppressed rage he turned to Porthos with a growl.

"We are back at the camp, what are we doing back here? Where's Athos?"

"He wasn't among the freed soldiers,"

"I remember," he bit out, "And I still don't understand what we are doing here, why did we return without him?"

He noticed the clenched jaw as his friend pinched the bridge of his nose before Porthos took to his feet and wiped a hand down his face. Stepping closer to d'Artagnan he reached out to grasp his arm but he stepped back out of reach, saw the hurt flash across his brother's face and felt his temper rise, this time at himself. Lips thinning in an effort to keep his tongue in check d'Artagnan looked away.

"You had to bring me back," he nodded to himself, "I wasn't strong enough to go on so you had to bring me back,"

"You were bleeding too heavily,"

"Then you could've sent me back with someone else,"

"And had done what?" Porthos glared at him, "gone ahead and taken on the Spanish army by myself?"

"If that's what it took to find Athos then you should have!"

The moment he voiced them he knew how absurd the words sounded and the stiffening in the broad shoulders before him told him just how badly his brother had taken them. He didn't want Porthos doing that, he didn't want him going off on some quest that was sure to end in his death, his hand that was pressed against his wound curled into a fist and d'Artagnan hated the stinging pain there that reminded him of his weakness. He was the reason Porthos couldn't extend the search, because he was bleeding too heavily his friend had chosen him over looking further for Athos.

D'Artagnan shook his head.

"I –"

"Athos isn't at that camp," Porthos said, "they sent him away,"

His heart hammered in his chest.

"Where?"

"Not sure yet,"

He could be anywhere, stowed away in any nook or cranny on earth and they wouldn't be able to find him. He could be locked up and forgotten – not forgotten d'Artagnan promised himself – never forgotten.

"If you hadn't had to bring me back –"

The pull on his collar cut his words short. Porthos dragged him closer with the fist curled in his shirt and dark eyes glinting with fury met his own. He had seen this level of rage only a few times in his brother; and every time it had stemmed from the sea of pain that the man carried in his heart ever since they had ridden out of Douai without their fourth.

"Now listen carefully you brat," Porthos' voice was a rumble of thunder; "I brought you back to keep you from bleeding to death. You can whine and growl and snap all you want but I am not losing another brother."

D'Artagnan blinked, Porthos did not.

"You hear me?" growled the older man.

D'Artagnan nodded.

Swallowed the lump in his throat.

"General?" a tentative voice spoke from their side.

Porthos set him back on his feet, a move much gentler than his tone had been and d'Artagnan looked to the soldier standing a few feet away. He was not a Musketeer, he couldn't name him either but he had seen that face among the men in General Lavelle's command.

"General?"

"What?" Porthos demanded.

"General Garth wants to see you,"

Porthos dismissed the man with a nod and d'Artagnan simply blinked. He looked up at the clear sky and guessed it was an hour or so past dawn, a glance around told him that they had finally reached the hilltop somewhere during his unconsciousness and the carts off to the side announced that the supply from Poitiers had arrived as well.

"General?" he asked Porthos.

"I'm the most experienced Musketeer alive, General Garth asked me to step up and since General Lavelle was killed his men needed someone at the command too,"

D'Artagnan smiled despite the situation, he was sure that the pride he felt for his brother would have been the same for those friends absent at the moment. Something must have shown on his face because Porthos shrugged a shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck in a manner that didn't suit his general boisterous demeanor. And d'Artagnan felt his heart grow heavy, he hadn't seen that demeanor in years now; that happy, laughing Porthos was lost somewhere along the paths leading away from Douai.

"It's a temporary arrangement," Porthos said.

"They should make it permanent," d'Artagnan spoke honestly, "you're a better leader than General Lavelle could have ever been."

"Well I better go," Porthos turned away, "you eat something,"

D'Artagnan took a moment to gather his strength, waited until he was steady on his feet and then he was following his brother across the camp. Snagging a chunk of bread from the open sack atop a supply cart he hurried to match the long strides.

"I said –"

"– Eat something, yes I'm eating," he held up the bread, "now what do we know about where they'd taken Athos?"

"I told you we're not sure,"

"So that means there are some doubts and possibilities?"

Any start for this search was good as far as he was concerned.

"We may have some information,"

"What is it?"

Porthos stopped and turned to stare at him, the torn look on his friend's face made his own heart clench painfully. It was obvious that the man was feeling the weight of some difficult decision and d'Artagnan couldn't let him carry that burden alone, not if he could help it. Porthos nodded as if he had read the sentiment in his eyes and tipped his head slightly to the side. It was then that he realized they were standing outside a tent, most likely General Garth's.

Without a word d'Artagnan followed his friend in. Ignored the surprise on General Garth's face as the two of the came to stop before his desk and stood straighter, chin out and shoulder's back as he dared the man behind the desk to order him out. He trusted Porthos to make the decisions and if standing by him was what was needed of him he was happy to provide it.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you would like to know about this as well," General Garth said.

D'Artagnan had no idea what he was talking about but the way Porthos pulled at the only free chair and looked to him pointedly he knew that he had a lot to learn and quickly. Gingerly taking a seat he looked from one General to the other.

"The men who had escaped told us they had help," Porthos said, "some men came in the night and cut off their bindings. Ordered them to stay put until a distraction comes up,"

"The explosions," d'Artagnan realized them for what they were.

"And apparently there were other sudden problems for the Spanish too but that is not our concern yet," General Garth said as he crossed his arms on the table and leaned on them, "our concern is another man that one of our recently freed soldiers told us about,"

"This man was Spanish," Porthos grimaced, "but spoke French clearly, said he was neither and both,"

"And...?"

"Well this one saved our soldier from a beating and then tortured the Spanish soldier who had been meting out the punishment," Porthos drew a hand through his hair, "our soldier heard the Spanish soldier tell him something about Douai,"

That place, the place, d'Artagnan shook his head and pulled his thoughts together. His voice came out rough when he spoke.

"What about it?"

"This torturer was asking something about Athos," Porthos said, "our soldier doesn't understand Spanish so..."

"So we needed some verification," General Garth sat back.

He tapped the papers scattered on his desk and d'Artagnan noticed the broken seals for the first time. They were not French seals, at least none that he knew about. And then it struck him and he stared wide eyed at the General.

"Spanish correspondence," he looked back to the papers and then at the man, "how did you get them?"

"Found by one of our scouts last night," General Garth said, "a bag likely dropped by some Spanish soldier as they gave chase to the fleeing prisoners."

"And this confirms Athos' whereabouts," it was not a question, d'Artagnan was sure that the proof was there.

"We know that the Spanish have a footing in Calais and they are using waterways for correspondence," General Garth nodded, "and that they have found a base near Douai,"

"That's where they're taking Athos, what are we waiting for here?" d'Artagnan pushed to his feet.

Not able to hide his surprise when Porthos' hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. Landing on the chair with a rather strong thump he glared at his friend; there was no way he was staying behind as the other Musketeer went to rescue Athos. He needed to watch his brothers' back; he needed to keep an eye on both of them.

"We're not going," Porthos said.

* * *

The rising sun was still closer to the horizon, the few wisps of clouds in the sky doing nothing to ease the heat that rose with it. The forest trail on the hillside was empty save for them. Aramis resisted the urge to coax his horse into a gallop; they had kept a steady pace and stopped only for as long as the horses needed before resuming their journey to Douai. During their last stop he had sent out Alois to check the village for any Spanish presence and had followed their trail over the curving hills.

His eyes slanted to the side Alois rode closer to him, holding out an apple.

Aramis quirked a brow but the man didn't pull back.

"We're quite near the monastery," Alois said, "it sits high enough to provide us a better view ahead,"

A halt in their pursuit could cost him much too dearly but Aramis knew there was no use to go in blind. He could send Devereux; it was his turn to gather up the clues of their enemy's presence and with his past as a soldier especially in the Spanish army he would be better suited to spot a hideout from that point. Aramis looked to Alois who was still holding out an apple although his gaze was roaming over the higher ground at their side.

"Ride ahead and see if you can accesses the vantage point from the monastery," Aramis said.

The wide eyed gaze swinging his way told him that the man hadn't expected it and the bright grin that stretched after it on that face told Aramis that he had done right. If he had a chance to let a father and son meet he couldn't find it in him to deny that, and yet he made sure it didn't show on his face as he tipped his head slightly.

"We're in a hurry," he said.

"Of course Captain," Alois thrust the apple in his hand and nudged his horse into a gallop.

And he tried not to imagine what it would feel like to have a possibility to catch eve a glimpse of his own son. Aramis cut that thought off before it could bloom, crushed it in the bud knowing full well that the root of it would never whither. Pulling his gaze away from where the echo of the hooves was receding he looked to Devereux as the man pulled his own horse up to his side.

"You should eat that," Devereux nodded towards the apple.

The knot his gut tightened at the words and his mouth soured eve as he made sure his face betrayed nothing. Giving the man a bland look Aramis tucked the apple in his saddle bag, not missing the huff of annoyance from his companion. Food and sleep hadn't been kind to him in the past years and he could not risk their ill will when he had yet to even locate where Athos had been taken.

"We will find him," Devereux said.

There was no doubt about that in Aramis' mind.

"But what state would he be in by then,"

"Alive,"

"He better be," Aramis nodded.

His mind racing over possible ways to rescue his friend; the best option would be to spot the rider before he reaches the outpost. A shot from the distance and the one rider that he had been told of would be dead, Athos saved and he would not have to reveal himself. But if Athos was already stowed away somewhere in the outpost his chances were narrowed, they would need to find a point of entry and then search for the man without giving away their faces to the captors and the captive. But Aramis prayed that his luck would hold out enough to keep the Spanish from shipping off Athos, shaking his head he wondered what he would be able to do then, he needed a plan for that possibility too.

He was still tying up plans in his mind when the monastery loomed above them. Its shadow deepening the shade of the canopy at their side and looking through the web of leaves in his view Aramis saw the old towers rising to the sky; the thick walls offering sanctuary that he had sought knowing full well that it would be anything but. The solace offered here would have been his punishment not that out there was any difference for him. Because his sanctuary was the company of a sober drunkard, a most honest cheat of a gambler and a young man full of righteous anger.

He looked back to the road when the sound of a rider ahead reached them and Aramis' hand went to his pistol even as he urged his horse to meet Alois halfway.

"I found the outpost," he announced.

"That was fast," Devereux muttered.

"The children had been watching the roads from the windows," Alois said, "Luc told me he had seen who he believes were Spanish soldiers once or twice that way and showed me the old chateau they went to."

"There is something else," Aramis said.

He could read the hesitancy in the face before him, there was something dark lurking under the news of this success. Alois grimaced and cleared his throat.

"While I was watching – now I maybe wrong – but I saw a rider, he wasn't in armour or anything but he was heading out there," he said, "There was one horse but I think – I think there were two people there."

Pushing down the implication of those words Aramis tipped his head to the side.

"Lead the way," he said.

And hoped that they could catch up with this rider, if they had indeed found the Spanish strong hold and if that was a Spanish soldier that Alois saw then there was a high chance that he had been taking Athos with him. Aramis nudged his horse to move faster as they rode down the winding pathways, leaving the monastery behind in a wake of dirt and twigs. By the time they had reached the edge of the expanse that stretched out to the river in the distance, the sun was nearing its peak in the sky.

Aramis peered at the far chateau that had clearly seen better days, the dark patches on the thick outer walls visible even from the distance spoke of neglect. Yet he couldn't help but notice the soundness of the stone built structure with the river at its back and its multiple floors that provided a good visibility across the more or less barren plain that it faced on three sides. And worst of all Aramis could see no sign of the rider Alois had spotted.

"They would see us coming even before we are in the shooting distance." Devereux said.

"We need a point of entry," Alois said, "I don't think we'll find tunnels in this one, but there's the river."

"Runs behind it not through," Aramis shook his head, "we'll need to cross it twice to come up behind them and even then they'll see us coming."

And then there was the matter of finding Athos in there, from the outside they had no idea where they could be keeping the Captain of the Musketeers. Aramis considered the options, about what they already knew and built on that, a slow smile creeping up on his face. Alois had said that this rider wasn't in armour, that at least wouldn't be a problem for the plan taking shape in his mind.

"Then it seems we'll just have to go ahead and knock on their door," Aramis said.

Devereux looked from him to the chateau then back again while Alois' mouth opened and closed when no words came forward.

"You need to be a Spanish soldier again for the next few hours," Aramis said to Devereux, "a soldier who had been sent to deliver the man who had been captured under suspicion of being a spy,"

"And that would be you," said the man.

"I find the Captain and make sure he stays alive until the Musketeers find their way here,"

It was a risk of letting his presence known to his brother and it was one that Aramis hoped he could find a way to avoid once he was within the chateau.

"You are sure they would come to rescue him," it was not a question from Alois as the man looked from him to the chateau in the distance, "fine then, Devereux it seems you have two potential spies to deliver here."

"I need you outside to work with Devereux and find us a way out," Aramis said, "they wouldn't be too suspicious of their own soldiers patrolling the walls."

"I don't speak their language," Alois said, "besides; you're making sure that the Musketeers' Captain stays alive in there, but who will make sure that you do the same Captain?"

Aramis had no answer to that, even if he would have found the words he was sure they would not have passed the stone that had formed in his throat. It wasn't that he had hadn't noticed the little things over the years, the pointed looks shared among his companions when he found no apatite or the silent concern when he took longer watches since he could not sleep. Blinking away the sudden burn in his eyes Aramis nodded.

Without a word he divested himself of the weapons, pausing when he unhooked the small pouch on his belt. It held the seal and the cipher that Treville had left for him in that first satchel at Les Routes Perdues. It was his authority and responsibility; he would rather be killed then give up either to an enemy.

"You could bury it by some marker back there," Devereux said, "retrieve it once we're done here."

He could do that.

It was a good idea.

Aramis held out the pouch to Devereux.

"It'll be safer with you," he said.

If the man's dark eyes were a bit brighter as he reached out to take the pouch no one called him out on it and if he cleared his throat for no reason it was not pointed out by Alois or Aramis. Devereux tucked the pouch in his belt with a sharp nod. Once the others had secured their horses and weapons in the thicket, he looped a rope around their wrists and led them across the expanse.

As they neared the chateau Aramis realized why no one had noticed the Spanish soldiers on French soil, it was simply because even as close as they were it seemed that the structure was empty and going to ruins. The chipped and cracked walls were half hidden behind vines and moss while most of the windows were broken and planked up. With no close neighbor to pick up on the noise of life inside the visible signs of emptiness stuck to the building like a curtain.

Catching the gleam of light over metal through the gap in the planks of the second story window Aramis smirked, they were careful but not careful enough. If nothing else then the wide thick doors of the chateau would have been enough to tell him that something was amiss. The metal and wood main door shut tight against intruders would only be needed if there was something inside worth protecting. Shifting his gaze away from the bands on metal on the door Aramis studied the deceptively crumbling archway under which they had come to a stop as Devereux pounded on the door.

A small block of wood slid aside at eye level.

"And who're you?"

"Delivering prisoners,"

"That's not a name,"

"Because I don't plan on giving it to you," Devereux snapped, "now open up or you can explain to everyone why there are two French spies less for questioning,"

The man on the other side shut the small window with an expletive. But there was a creak and a heave and a minute later the door was pulled open. Aramis felt a hand grab his arm as Devereux held him on one side and Alois on the other and nearly dragged them in.

He resisted, like he was supposed to and grit his teeth when Devereux's fingers dug deeper to keep hold of him. Alois was wriggling in the man's grasp on the other side. And they stepped into the inner courtyard cursing and hissing at each other.

Suddenly another hand caught him from the other arm and swung him around, a fist connecting with his face hard enough to make him stagger. With his bound hands clasping at his knee Aramis managed to not drop to the floor even as flashes of light danced in his view. The same grip tightened around his arm again and hauled him straight.

A man with a thin line of dark hair on his upper lip came into his view.

"They are supposed to be spies?" he asked Devereux.

"That's what I was told,"

Glinting beady eyes turned to him again and Aramis offered a grin, wide, wild and tainted with the blood he could taste in his mouth.

"Bert,"

The beady eyed man glanced at the one who was standing before Alois, a sneer twitching up on his face when the other man shook his head.

"Not branded eh?" Bert looked back to Aramis.

Stepped closer to him and grasping the collar of his shirt he pulled it aside. Aramis ignored the sinking feeling in his gut as the sneer widened on that face; there was something he was missing, something that neither of them knew that apparently this man did. His eyes narrowed as the man stepped back and ran an appraising gaze over him.

"You aren't marked either," Bert shrugged a shoulder and pulled out the pistol from his belt, "why waste time on two unmarked prisoners when one will do?"

He grinned and turned and Aramis realized a second too late that they were speaking in Spanish. That one of them had no idea what was being said and his denial burst from his lips just as Bert fired. Alois' head snapped back and he fell face up on the ground; dead.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. Thank you Debbie, Beeblegirl and Jmp for taking the time to share your thoughts!**

 **Okay, bad news is that the next chapter isn't done yet, good news is that I'm working on it every chance I get, so maybe the next update wouldn't be very long way away.**


	14. Chapter 14

There were voices he didn't recognize.

There were words he didn't understand.

But the tone, he knew that tone; insistent but not warm, urgent but not supportive, a tone that was cruel in its demands whatever they were. Athos felt his eyes twitch as a fading memory of a vice grip on his arm and a voice he hadn't heard in nearly over a decade echoed about him; touched his mind in flashes of dark narrowed eyes and wide green ones as the walls of the hallway in his home at Pinon blurred around him. He could feel the younger man pull him along...

"Thomas,"

"Who?" demanded the voice, "Who is that?"

He shuddered.

There was a chill in his flesh that trembled in pain and cold and he blinked against the sweat clinging to his eyelashes. The bright light left him flinching. A shadow fell across his sight and cut off the single golden beam that was spilling into the room.

"Who is Thomas?"

Cracked lips parted as he squinted at the face looming closer, the features he didn't recognize but that tone, the last he had heard from his little brother was the same.

"Thomas," he breathed.

"Who is that?"

He shifted where he sat and stilled with a choked gasp. Pressed his arm against the side of his chest and felt something shift beyond the skin and muscle. The pain like a rusty blade taken to his bones spiked anew and he thought he heard a rustle of cloth, a hint of pale blue just out of the corner of his eyes.

" _There was a woman. She died by my hand."_

" _You murdered her?"_

" _I loved her."_

Another prison came in his thoughts, another time when his brothers had pulled him out of death's claw even as it had closed around him. But they didn't know where he was, even he didn't know where he was his mind corrected him. Athos licked his lips, feeling hot and cold at the same time as the ache in his head pounded a vicious rhythm.

"Who is Thomas?

"My brother," he said.

Lifted his aching head off from where his chin rested on his chest and let his eyes roll in an effort to take in his surroundings; a room, high roof, grey walls and shackles lying on a grey stone floor across from him. He shifted on what felt like a chair under him and felt the metal weigh on his ankles and his wrists. Someone grabbed his arm and he looked up, for a second he simply stared at the blurred face of his little brother as the younger one dragged him along because _you must see this Athos you must see who she really is_ – Athos blinked and the face changed to a dark eyed man.

"Your brother leads that patrol?" the man asked.

Athos looked away, glanced down to the side and felt his breath catch and his eyes widen. He shook his head, heeded the voice in the back of his head that told him this was left in a time past, this was not happening now. But the pain of loss and betrayal was new all over again; sharp and cutting like a blade between his ribs as he stared at his brother lying dead on the floor.

He shook his head and shivered. Sweat rolled down his spine and the mirage of his dead brother shimmered.

"Is it your brother then?" asked the man before him. "Is he the one leading these patrols?"

He couldn't pull his gaze away even as the sputtering image left him feeling dizzy.

"My brother is dead," he said.

Dead like the Musketeers he had led into battle ever since this war started, dead like the soldiers who had been shot down because he didn't know the right answer. The room churned in his view as his eyes rolled in his head. His orders, his mistake...

" _She died five years ago now, by my orders. She was a cold-blooded murderer, so I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."_

Thick fingertips dug in his cheek and yanked his face straight. The dark eyed man glared at him, spoke words that Athos didn't hear, his attention and gaze sliding back to the side, to the body that flickered in and out of his sight. The hand on his face shook it hard.

"Who leads the patrol on the supply routes?"

His jaw hurt.

"What patrol?" Athos frowned.

The sound of boot scraping against stone was his only warning before a fist connected with his face and pain burst in red and gold on the back of his eyelid. His breath stuttered as another hit his stomach once, twice until he was gasping and curled forwards; the metal edge of the shackles around his wrists cutting into his flesh as he folded in on himself.

He thought he heard a woman's laugh, not just a woman's but her laugh, light and breathy as the scent of the blue flowers woven in her hair.

"How does it work?" demanded the voice, "how many people are there?"

Was she there Athos wondered, shivered in the cold that had taken home in his flesh even as he felt too warm. A sluggish thought brought him to a distant cross road and his numb fingers rubbed over the ghost of her glove. His mind twisted around the thought, reminded him that she had had left; had finally left him alone hadn't she? Where were Porthos and d'Artagnan? Had they left him too?

"How do you defend your supplies?"

His face throbbed, there was a coppery tang in his mouth and Athos could feel it dribble past his dry lips as he swiped his tongue over a loose tooth back in his jaw somewhere. He forced his wandering mind back, found it bucking his control in that odd combination of shivering and smoldering that had settled in him. It took an unhealthy amount of effort for him to lift his head again, the dark blob he assumed to be his captor shifted in his sight like a spot of oil in water. Athos gathered his breath; pursed his lips against the sharp pain that jolted from his side at that action.

"How do you defend your supplies?"

"I don't," he said.

He was aware of the fist coming to his face although he couldn't see it clearly. As it knocked his world to black Athos thought he heard a gunshot pierce the air and a denial screamed in another voice that he hadn't heard in years.

* * *

Death and violence had been his companions from even before he had a proper scruff on his chin.

And firearms had become an extension of his self, an attempt to control and hone the bloodshed, a way to defend what he held dear without causing too much pain or spreading the suffering. One clear, clean shot, a piece of himself turning to cold stone as he took a life and saved another, or a few.

But some shots fired were never silenced, their reverberations forever echoing around his essence.

The shot that took his mother's life had been one; the one that killed James, stilling his grin during the siege of Montauban was another; he couldn't ever shake off the sound of shot that had torn through Hugo when his friend had stepped before him in Rochelle – that shot had passed through his friend and still found home in his shoulder; he couldn't forget the din of shots that had laid waste of his comrades in Savoy and he had could still feel the jolt of the shot with which he had ended Marsac's life.

Aramis pressed his forehead against the rough surface of the pole and closed his eyes, the shot that had killed Alois still ricocheting around in his mind.

He pressed harder, grit his teeth and leaned into the support that he was bound to. As the tiny splinters from the coarse wood of the canning pole pricked his skin deeper he tried to ignore the descending sun that still shone too bright. The afternoon had dragged on with the sun blazing its finest at its peak. Slowing his breathing he pulled away from the thought of the sweat that trickled down his face and neck, trailing a path of fire across the torn skin of his back. The blood collected at the rim of his breeches itched as it dried and he flexed his bruised knuckles where his hands were tied above his head.

He had screamed, only once.

In that second Alois had hit the ground.

And then he had fought like a man possessed.

Opening his eyes he squinted against the glare of sunlight over the stone covered courtyard and noticed that someone had cleaned the pool of blood where Alois had died. One more wrong decision that he had made that had again left behind destroyed lives; another notch in his conscience that would bleed until it couldn't and heal only to seep again when he defenses were lowered. His oversight had cost that man his life, a man who had trusted him, who had a son awaiting his visits– Aramis flinched at the thought and straightened, bit his lip from crying out at the pull it caused his back.

The pain cut through his thoughts and brought him back to the situation, cleared away the last of the fog that had settled in his mind when the canning had first began. Pulling in a steady breath he eased the weight off of his arms and forced his knees to take their share, the move leaving him standing a touch straighter even if it felt like his back was getting ripped all over again. He had lost a man in his command, he had lost a friend – traded one life for another the vicious voice in his mind corrected, sneered at him for becoming the man who believed he had the right to decide who to save and who to kill. Aramis swallowed thickly, felt the burning wetness in his eyes and tried to remember that Alois had made his choice joining his group, tried to bring to the forefront of his thoughts the true purpose he was doing this, had been doing it for nearly four years now. He had lost a friend but his work was not done. Grief would come, would rip him apart together with all the other monsters he carried in his mind, but he could not allow any of those that freedom at the moment.

It was a luxury he could not allow.

Aramis blinked away the sweat that rolled in his eyes, refused to acknowledge the wetness as anything else and turned his attention to the chateau he was in. Tied up in nearly the center of the square courtyard he had a clear view of all the windows and doors that opened there. There were four floors in all with two that had open corridors bordering the inner courtyard; he had seen the staircase on his right as Devereux had dragged them across the main room and out into the courtyard.

He wondered where the man was even as he glanced over his shoulder at the south of the building that had collapsed in on itself some time in the past, had left a mass of stone that may have been a rubble once but time and rains had washed away what it could leaving only large blocks of what had once been walls. Looking back to the front he caught sight of the men playing cards in the first floor corridor that connected the east and west wings of the building.

Somewhere in this place was Athos.

He would need to locate him, preferably without his friend knowing that he was there and pass on the information to Devereux so that the man can escape with him. Running his gaze over the men patrolling the corridors he knew it would not be easy, but if he could find out where Athos was or what it was that the Spanish knew about him then he could use that knowledge to get Devereux 'the Spanish soldier' to escort the Captain of the Musketeers out right through the main door.

Aramis dragged in a deeper breath, the motion stilling halfway as it stoked the agony on his back but the sound of footsteps pulled at his attention before the pain could swipe it away. His gaze shifted from tracing the shadow that fell on the ground to the man who cast it. A slow smirk pulled at his face as Bert came closer; his broken nose uncomfortably crooked under the swelling bruise that had left his eyes sunk deeper into his face.

"How's the arm," Aramis asked, refused to acknowledge the pain he was in because of that particular arm, "I would ask about the face but I can see it's an improvement,"

Bert's lip twitched in a snarl that his face wouldn't allow for the pain. He glared at Aramis.

"There's still some blows left in it," his voice came out thick as he rolled his shoulders, "don't think you've got much skin left on your back though,"

Aramis tilted his head a little to the side and raised a brow in mock concern.

"Are you sure you can pull in enough air for another round?" he asked, "with that swelling you'll faint from the lack of air by the second blow,"

"I can arrange for someone to take over,"

"Now I really don't feel special," Aramis shook his head in a gesture that would have been rueful if not for the blatant scorn in his tone, "is that because I'm not branded?" he asked.

Bert snorted and winced, his glower darkening when Aramis snickered. His captor took a step towards him and Aramis raised a brow in challenge, silently urged the man to spill the words already, to point him towards something that would lead him to Athos. It took every shred of his control to not sag and relieve the burning pull on his back as the man grabbed him by a fist full of hair and yanked his head back, the blade in his other hand a glint in the sunlight.

Aramis stilled, the edge of the cool steel grazed his neck

"By the time I'm done with you, you will wish you had been branded," Bert growled.

Resisting the need to flinch, to pull away from weapon at his neck that pressed deeper in a taunt, Aramis pushed back any fear that threatened to show itself as he gave his captor a bland look.

"Really?"

There was every bit of derision he felt for the man in that word and he was rewarded with a pull in his hair that burned down his taut spine. His captor's beady eyes glinted with dark glee and Aramis was sure that the warm drop that trailed down his neck was not sweat.

"You see with the branded we have to be careful. Make sure they live long enough to tell us all they can, we can't afford them getting too damaged; but you," Bert's face twitched in an effort to grin, "I don't have to be careful with you. You're dispensable, a surplus for our entertainment. You're not essential for any information that you may have."

"And how do you judge what I know or don't?" he smirked.

The sunken dark eyes narrowed and Aramis dared not swallow lest he cut himself further, it was just a scrape he reminded himself but he was not oblivious to how quickly that graze could deepen. His gaze remained steady under the scrutiny until Bert let him go with a shove, the side of his head connecting hard with the pole he was tied to.

The impact spread out in flashing tendrils of pain that turned into white cracks behind his eyelids. He let the pole take his weight for a moment and willed the fissures before his closed eyes to fade away. A sour taste filled his mouth and he breathed through his nose to keep it at bay. Someone abruptly cut the ropes keeping him tethered to the pole and his world slumped suddenly. Hands grabbed him as the voices came as if from the bottom of a well.

"I'll take him,"

The words hung in his mind and Aramis blinked rapidly, stared up at the man pulling him to his feet in a grip that was firm not harsh. He wriggled to tug his arm away and Devereux yanked at it, a glance his way acknowledging the need to put on a show yet his pinched expression silently begged Aramis not to. With a glare and shaky knees Aramis let the man pull him along; past the guards he tried to note the number of, through the main room that he marked for entryways and up the stairs. It was there that he staggered, stumbled and nearly fell to his knees as his leg connected solidly with the edge of a marble step.

"C'mon, get up," Devereux's voice was gruff.

But the hands that grasped at his shoulders were not. Aramis pressed his numb fingers against the smooth surface of the stair before him and pushed up on his hands that were still bound together in front of him. When Devereux eased him straight it was with a mummer of encouragement in French. Aramis cast a hasty glance up and down the staircase, relieved to find it empty save for them. He looked back at the dark eyes going over his state and met the man's gaze head on.

"Alois –"

"I will take him to the monastery tonight," Devereux said.

Aramis nodded, read the grim determination and a soldier's grief in the eyes that held his, but most of all there was an understanding there; deep and somber. And suddenly he remembered the time when he had ordered this man into a boat despite his reluctance and the conversation between them after that. As if hearing the echoes of that same conversation the other man nodded.

"You are not apologizing," Devereux said.

"You wouldn't have boarded if you had really not wanted to," Aramis echoed.

And found himself steadier for it. He turned his attention back onto the stairs and pushed himself to lift one foot after the other. Ignored the sick feeling churning in his gut and turned his mind towards finding Athos.

"He's alive and hopefully not too harmed," he murmured, "I still don't know where they're keeping him,"

"I've agreed to go on a scouting mission with them," Devereux whispered as they neared the landing, "I'll gather what I can about him,"

"Take him in under orders from a General at the front," Aramis said, searched for names and information stolen from the Spanish camp that he had hastily went over before setting off, "Orders from General Ramiro, he knows about these secret posts. If they ask why –"

"I'll ask them when a General had ever answered that for a lowly soldier," Devereux nodded.

Aramis swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth and raised his bound hands to wipe at his forehead, stopped abruptly when his back protested painfully. He looked up at the stairs left and wondered for a blink how he was supposed to do this. The overwhelming uncertainty that he had locked away when he had sat alone in the night with Treville's barely drawn plans scattered before him seeped out again; that distant night when he had just killed two of the people he was supposed to lead came flashing to the forefront as a shot reverberated in his mind, Alois' eyes freezing in eternal shock –

"Captain?"

And brutally Aramis wrangled it all back in its place, behind that door in his mind he never intentionally opened.

"The south wing, it's collapsed," he turned to Devereux, ignored the worry in his face as they half stumbled half ascended the last of the stairs, "If all else fails, take him through there, have a horse ready and slip out with him."

"I will,"

Aramis nodded, lips pinching close as his foot missed the last step and he hit the floor, landing on his hands before Devereux could catch him. His leg throbbed where his knee had connected with the cold stone edge. Distantly he heard footsteps and even as he blinked he was hauled up. The sudden change left him wincing and he tried not to reel into the man holding him up. There were words exchanged in quick Spanish until someone snickered.

"Cosme?" asked the voice.

"Yes," Devereux said, "I am to take him to Cosme,"

"The old maniac was getting bored," said the voice, "this'll cheer him up."

And Aramis felt new hands on him, pulling him along before he could get his feet under him properly. He was still trying to keep a count of the men in the corridor and the doors he had passed when they came to a stop; the soldier ahead of him kicked open a door and dragged him inside.

The rancid smell hit him like a slap to the face.

And Aramis pulled to a stop on instincts. His gaze adjusting to the dim glow of the single beam of light that slanted from above the door they had entered. And there in the center of the room was the device. He shivered and heard a sharp inhale from his side. It was that, the sound of fear in the man under his charge that reminded him of his place, of his position as the man in command, the one who had to see things through.

"Cosme! Cosme! Bert finally sent someone up for you!" shouted the other soldier as he moved further into the room, past the contraption.

Aramis stamped down the shudder that threatened to break forth and glanced at the man at his side. Devereux's eyes were wide, hand hovering over the pistol at his side and Aramis had no doubt the man would shoot his way out of here as he dragged him along. It was this thought that gave him strength. His still bound hands shifted until his numb fingers had grasped the other man's wrist. Dark eyes met his and Aramis shook his head. Denied the silent protest in Devereux's features and tilted his head slightly towards the door.

"Go," he whispered.

Devereux shook his head; angry and mutinous and determined.

"That's an order,"

It was low and soft, words barely forming under his breath, but the iron weight he had learned to put behind his words did not disappoint Aramis. The man before him nearly growled and stepped back with a nod, his face softening when Aramis offered him half a smile. Then he watched his friend in the Spanish uniform turn and walk out of the door.

And Aramis turned to face the rack.

* * *

The sun was red.

Dipping close to the horizon and streaking the sore blue sky with streaks of aching pink. Porthos wiped a hand down his face and looked away from the distant camp below. The Spanish hadn't started an offensive; even though he had been half expecting it he was not surprised by their reticence. If what he had heard the previous night was any sign of the mess the enemy camp had been in he was sure that they were in no shape to start an attack, not even defend properly if the sound of explosions that had reverberated in the dark was anything to go by.

His gaze roamed over their own camp and his mind reminded him of their own losses, of why they couldn't take this opportunity and push the enemy back. And they needed to push them back, to cut through them and reach Douai. Porthos bit back a sigh as his gaze settled on the figure by the supply carts. Long rows of cleaned and oiled muskets were set before him as the younger man bent to add another into the neat line.

Even from the distance Porthos did not miss the hastily concealed swaying when his friend straightened. And from a distant memory another young man came in his thoughts, another hurting friend who had found solace in the armory of the garrison when rage and grief had become too much. With a shake of his head Porthos pulled his thoughts back to the present, trying not to grimace at remembering _him_ again he made his way over to the friend he still had at his side.

D'Artagnan didn't look his way, hadn't looked his way or approached him ever since the younger man had thundered out of General Garth's tent that morning. Porthos had hoped that d'Artagnan would have calmed by now, had hoped that he would give in to his wound and exhaustion and find some rest. Glancing up at darkening sky Porthos realized that rest would have been helpful to his young friend since they would be heading out soon now – not as soon as he would have wanted but they would finally be able to get to Athos.

His brother hadn't liked the delay, the disappointed look that d'Artagnan had sent his way flashed in his mind and Porthos winced. He had thought that the younger Musketeer would understand; had assumed that he would see that they couldn't abandon the men that were now under Porthos' command. Coming to a stop at the edge of the neat lines of the muskets Porthos looked to the man who was ignoring his presence.

"You could have asked some of the others to help you," he sad.

"Don't need it,"

"There are too many,"

"There were,"

D'Artagnan wiped down the barrel of the musket in his hand and turned to the ones he had laid on the ground; the crates in the carriage that had been carrying the weapons to them were empty. The younger Musketeers bent to set the musket in his hands with the others, swaying again as he straightened and Porthos grasped his arm to steady him.

Brown eyes met brown.

Stubborn met stubborn.

And Porthos saw what they had talked about often among them when this man had yet not become a Musketeer; at the time when he had started become a fixture in their lives even before he had earned a commission in their regiment. He remembered how the three of them had jested that there was something of each in the lad and – Porthos swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat and looked away.

"The scouts will be back soon," he said.

"They'll only confirm what we know," d'Artagnan stepped out of his grasp.

He had been there when Porthos had sent out the men to locate what could be a Spanish post somewhere near Douai.

"It's a confirmation I need," he said, "I can't go off on my own and I can't lead the Musketeers away from the front without any proof. They would follow me without it but I can't –"

"Not with the position you are in," d'Artagnan said.

He looked to him even as he nodded and Porthos was surprised to find a grim sort of acceptance there.

"I understand Porthos," said his friend, "you're a General, you have responsibilities and people to answer to, a way to do things, I see that – I just –"

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

"You don't like it," Porthos said, "and neither do I."

Because somewhere out there Athos was waiting for them, if what the Spanish rebels who had freed their prisoners where to be trusted, it seemed that their brother had been alive and taken to some hidden post for questioning.

"But you need some clear reason to order the men who were under General Lavelle's command," d'Artagnan nodded more to himself than anything.

He stepped further back and leaned against the cart, not bothering to hide the wince as the stitches in his side pulled at the move. Porthos followed his example and stopped at his side to let his weight rest against the cart as well; crossing his arms before him he let his shoulder brush his friend's, relieved when the other man did not move away from him.

"They don't like being thrust under my charge and I don't trust them, not like I trust the Musketeers;" Porthos said, "it makes no sense, I don't know most of the new Musketeers sent too us any more than I do General Lavelle's men and yet I –"

"You haven't forgotten General Pierre's men," d'Artagnan said.

Porthos' eyes widened as he looked to the man at his side. And even if his friend was still staring ahead at the French soldiers sorting through the food supplies there was a hardness in the lines of his face that Porthos noticed for the first time. He hadn't considered what d'Artagnan was implying, hadn't wanted to touch upon the fact that someone back at Paris was making decisions of sending them criminals to watch their backs. It was a battle on all fronts for them and he hadn't realized how deep that insecurity resided in him. Yet he couldn't believe the Minister of War would allow such deployments knowingly, the man he knew and respected wouldn't allow that.

"You trust Treville," d'Artagnan said as if he had read his thoughts, "You trust him to send you men that he sees fit to be Musketeers and you trust his judgment enough to trust those men. The others are not vetted by him as he still does for the Musketeers. "

Porthos snorted; there was no levity there.

Just the bitter realization of how jaded they had become, even the younger man at his side.

The sound of hooves against the ground had him looking up and Porthos felt the corner of his lips tip upwards. He glanced to the side and grinned wider when d'Artagnan turned to him wide eyed. There, making their way towards the French camp were soldiers, marching under the same banner as theirs but looking far stronger and bright than those who now stood staring at the procession.

"Reinforcements," d'Artagnan murmured.

Porthos' nodded and turned to his friend fully, head tipping to the side.

"Four hundred men strong," he said, "something I'd have told you about if you hadn't been sulking all morning,"

"You knew about them,"

"General Garth told me about it while you were unconscious,"

"You were waiting for them,"

"Among other things," Porthos nodded.

"So as soon as your scouts return with the confirmation–"

"Which they will in an hour at most," Porthos cut in as he pushed away from the cart, "and then we'll go bring our brother back."

* * *

The pain blinded him.

Settled upon him like a burning mist that muffled the world until all there was left was the sound of his heart, beating fast and wild in his chest like a bird in search of an escape. His shoulders burned, the joints screaming or was it him? Aramis clenched his jaw shut; teeth snapping close against the agony.

" _You are the Musketeer named Aramis?"_

" _Who wants to know?"_

" _I have a message from the cardinal."_

" _From beyond the grave?"_

" _In a manner of speaking,"_

There was a groan of metal.

He gasped.

His back was on fire.

"You will tell me all you know,"

Aramis blinked, wondered when he had closed his eyes even as they rolled in his head; the world a grey swirl around him as he tried to search for the person speaking. Another prison grew around him, a face he hated with a vehemence he had hadn't thought possible floated before his eyes. The man who had threatened everything he held dear leered at him from the corner of his mind.

" _I'm not going to lie to you Aramis. Your life cannot be saved. But there is still hope for the Queen. In exchange for a full confession from you, the King will divorce Her Majesty, disown the Dauphin, and allow both to live in exile. You can save her, Aramis. Just speak the truth_."

Truth.

It was an ugly twisted thing. A tangle of roots that couldn't ever be possibly deciphered, a jumble of realities each as genuine as the other even when they contradicted each other.

He loved the Queen like no subject should; that was a truth.

He loved his friends more than he had ever loved a blood relative apart from his mother; that was a truth.

He had committed the highest treason; that was a truth.

He would never regret it; that was a truth.

He longed to return to the life he had left behind; that was a truth.

He could never go back to the life he had left behind; that was a truth.

He cherished the bonds of brotherhood he had had; that was a truth.

He had destroyed the bonds of brotherhood he had had; that was a truth.

"Not ready to talk yet?"

A gravelly sound like a rustle of dry rocks floated through his mind, it was him he realized. It was his own dry chuckles echoing in his ears.

" _What's going on?"_

" _You created this mess. Tell them."_

"Tell me, tell me all you secrets little spy."

His secrets?

They weren't his really. Not solely his at least. If they were his he would give them away, all of them, just to be able to breathe again. The sat heavy on his chest, winded around him in a manner to contraption could. Aramis sucked in a breath that didn't come, his taut muscles wouldn't move, wouldn't expand as they should. He coughed and the pain nearly wiped out his consciousness.

" _I never meant to keep any secrets from you. But you must understand why I had to."_

" _Do you love her?"_

She's not the only one he wanted to say – had wanted to say.

Aramis felt his head roll on something hard, there was a fire in his bones and it was burning his muscles. He wondered where he was; wondered if the footsteps around him were Rochefort's. Was he finally at the mercy of that man? At least the others had saved Constance, he could never be thankful enough for that. He wished his brothers were safe, wished that Rochefort would not reach them, wished that he had told them that the Queen wasn't the only person in his life that he loved.

He loved his brothers too.

He loved his brothers.

"A brother?" the voice demanded, "was that man your brother? The man Bert killed?"

Bert?

" _If you really love her, there's one thing you can do to prove it. Deny it ever happened."_

"No," his voice rasped past his throat.

"No?"

Deny, deny, deny, for the Queen, for the Dauphin, for his brothers, deny.

"He was not your brother?"

The pressure had eased slightly, his ribs could move a little and air flowed through its old pathways into his lungs. Aramis squinted at the weathered face hovering over him, tried to place it in his mind, let his gaze roam over the bent old figure as far as it would go.

"He was your brother? The man who was with you?"

"No,"

"Then who was he?"

Aramis frowned; where was he?

The wheel turned; the chains pulled.

" _You have deceived the court. But worse, you have betrayed the King, the man you are sworn to serve, in the foulest possible way. No doubt you hoped to save your lover, the Queen, but you have only condemned her and damned your own soul. You are to be taken from here to await execution in a manner appropriate to your heinous crimes_."

That had happened, but not the execution.

A lavish corridor and a stumbling figure flashed in his mind, a wide eye left forever open, a woman's voice denying it closure. This was not his execution and Rochefort was dead.

" _I know you Musketeer, what you are and what you have done."_

" _If the Queen comes to any harm, you will pay for it with your blood."_

And he had, Aramis had delivered on his promise. But he wasn't alone in that, he wasn't alone then. But he was now; it was a certainty deep down that he couldn't comprehend, a dark presence in his mind that simply radiated the assurance that he was on his own, alone in a way he hadn't been ever since he had met Porthos and Athos.

He knew they weren't coming for him.

And the metal strained again.

" _What if the cardinal knew about the dauphin? I couldn't protect Adele. What if I can't protect my son?"_

" _You can't blame yourself for this."_

" _Who else can I blame?"_

And the sound of a pistol shot echoed through his mind, the shock on the man's face etched eternal as he fell dead played again before his closed eyes. Grief and guilt buried a path through his heart. It was his fault. His decisions had brought him where he was; had put those he cared for in danger. It came to him in a wave, the fear for the lives of the people he loved, the weight of the shackles on his wrists, the guilt of making his friends fugitives from the very crown they served.

" _The Queen?"_

" _Alive; no thanks to you."_

" _And the others?"_

" _Gone to help Porthos."_

He had to help them, had to save them. Under the layers of pain that had blanketed his wits he searched for that purpose; the one thing that had kept him going. The reason he had turned his back and walked away from his friends.

"You have nothing to share?"

His truths were all he had left; he could not let them go.

"Why do you not confess?"

He would take the secrets he carried to his grave.

"Is it duty holding you back? Does the little spy thinks he is being honourable in his silence?"

Aramis' eyes flew open.

" _So you deny the charges?"_

" _I do."_

" _A confession might have kept some small part of your honour intact. Instead, you disgrace yourself with these outrageous lies."_

No he was not there for honour, he hadn't any left. Had surrendered that to save all the lives he held dear.

" _I'm resigning my commission and retiring at the monastery at Douai."_

He was at Douai he remembered but not at the monastery, he was there for Athos.

"What did he say?" a thick voice demanded, a voice that seemed to have trouble breathing.

Aramis blinked against the sweat and haze; his mind screaming at him to pay attention.

"What did he say?"

" –thos, I believe,"

"Athos?"

Aramis couldn't stop the way his eyes slid to the man's face at sound of that name. And the triumphant grin that stretched on Bert's face twisted his gut into a knot, the man knew something, he was planning something and Aramis had learned at a high cost just how bad it could be.

"Release him,"

It was his only warning before the wheel spun and Aramis couldn't stop the rough scream that wrenched from him. The sudden loosening crashed into him like a gale and left him a shuddering, shivering mess on the rack. He lay there gasping, dimly aware of the conversation around him until he caught the sight of something too bright from the corner of his eye. It was the glowing tip of a blade.

"Looks like you'll finally get your wish," Bert said.

And the new touch of pain burned out the remnants of his consciousness.

* * *

It was dark.

The heat on his skin did nothing to warm the chill in his flesh. He shifted slightly, the cold stone of the floor a blessing and a menace, he wanted its cool relief but he hated it, he was too cold, too hot and the thumping ache in his head wouldn't let up. Athos moved again, heard the rustle of chains that held the manacles around his wrists as he rolled onto his back. Felt it hit the wall behind him and pushed himself up, stopped with a gasp when his ribs protested.

Head pressing back against the wall he cracked open the eye that was not swollen shut.

Flinched against the pale beam of moonlight that had slipped into the room.

A soft laugh floating in the air had him trying again and he waited until the blurred grey of the world around him slowly sharpened. The room was the same, the shadows cutting darker for the watery glow that was slanting in from the window above the door. There was whisper of cloth over stone, a barely there sound that reached him again and his eye sluggishly moved towards the far corner.

She stepped out of there, her steps silent as her blue dress swished quietly at her ankles.

" _I'm dreaming."_

" _Drunk, perhaps, but not dreaming."_

Athos frowned, this conversation had happened before.

" _Why are you here?"_

" _To erase the past. To destroy it completely..."_

He blinked.

Watched the woman smirk as she stepped closer to him with an eerie silence; came closer until she stopped in the pool of moonlight. Her green eyes were half lidded but there was a glint there. Her secrets played at her lips, the smirk teasing, knowing. Athos watched her, part mesmerized part cautious. This was not Pinon, he was not there and she was not here.

Her lips twitched as if she had read his thoughts, as a figment of his imagination he was sure she had.

And still he gazed at her as she turned, the hem of her dress a light swirl in the still air, and his wavering sight followed the tip of her head.

His breath caught.

And didn't return as the wide dark eyes from across him met his gaze. Athos' eye flicked lower, settled onto the pointed burn mark on the front of the man's shoulder before it traced his limp arms that ended with the shackles around his wrists that lay in his lap. He was shackled to the wall opposite him, pressed against it as if he was too terrified to breathe and give away his presence.

"You," Athos exhaled, "you."

The other man didn't move, didn't flinch, Athos wasn't sure if he even breathed.

" _How was my funeral?"_

" _The Captain had some very nice things to say about you. Porthos even shed a few tears."_

" _I'm sorry to have missed it."_

Of course it was _him_ , it would be _him_.

" 'm not dead," Athos said, "not yet,"

 _He_ didn't so much as blinked, like a statue carved out of flesh the man stared back at him. Athos looked up at the woman in the moonlight, tried to offer her a smile but the hot, tight skin on the side of his face left him somewhere close to a grimace.

"Makes sense," his words stuttered as he shivered, "you two coming to say goodbye,"

 _He_ blinked, or maybe it was him Athos thought, his eye watering as the ache in his head sharpened. The world darkened around the edges, shadows stretching and shifting until his eye slipped close. The cold and the heat weaved a thick mesh over his senses, closed around him and kept the world at bay.

" _I killed Thomas to save our love."_

" _You killed him because he discovered the truth. That you were a criminal who lied and tricked your way into my life,"_

" _He was a fool and a hypocrite. He deserved to die. I thought you would understand that."_

Not this argument again.

Athos groaned, his head shifting where it rested against the wall and he was sure he should have felt the stone scrape against his skin. But his entire face felt like a pulsing bruise and it was an effort to open his good eye again. The light was dim; a thin strip that was slanting into the room and somewhere in the back of his mind Athos realized that time had slipped from his grasp. It didn't bother him as much as it should have.

It took him long to realize that he was staring at _him_ , the man who was probably looking back but Athos couldn't see the features in the darkness that had grown. But it didn't matter, it wasn't as if he had forgotten what _he_ looked like – he had tried, done his best to forget the man who had been the first to breach his walls, the person who had been relentless in pursuit of friendship with him, something that Athos still couldn't understand.

But there, in the dark, suffocating and chilly room he could confess to himself that it had meant more to him than he had ever let show. It had changed him in ways he hadn't thought possible, he had been always about honour, about duty but he had broken all those rules that had dictated his entire life.

"... _It was my duty. It was my duty to uphold the law. My duty to condemn the woman I love to death. I've clung to the belief that I had no choice..."_

A snort from the corner had him looking that way as she emerged from the darkness again; hate blazing in her eyes.

But he couldn't deny that the moment he had known of _his_ doings the first thought in his mind had been to protect; to save the foolish, idiot humanbeing who he had suddenly realized in that moment was a brother to him – not just a friend but someone who brought out those old instincts of an older sibling that he had believed to have died with Thomas.

Athos looked to the man again.

"You're an idiot," he rasped.

And coughed, curled into himself despite the pain it caused him. But the coughing didn't stop, it jolted through his aching body and rattled his ribs, gasped and coughed harder at the lancing pain it stoked. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe and it only added to the misery he was in. Somewhere he thought there was a clatter of chains but the sound of his own gasping drowned it out and the world muffled into silence.

" _Athos, these people have no other protection; only us," Porthos reasons._

" _This is not your fight,"_

" _It is now," d'Artagnan counters._

 _And at his side is that man, inappropriately cheerful._

" _And I like it here," he says._

The sound of teeth chattering brought him around.

The room was completely dark, a grainy murk that gave vague edges to the shapes in the room. The soldier in him was aware he was not alone; his imaginings were still with him his mind reminded him and Athos wondered if they would stay with him to the very last. It would be a comfort he realized to have familiar faces around when death took him. He shuddered and found that it was his own chattering teeth that had pulled at his attention.

That sunny day in Pinon was a lifetime ago. Its warmth no longer reached him, not the warmth of the bright sun that day and not that of the stubborn presence of his brothers at his side. They had searched for him and they had found him, in a matter of hours they had been there at his side. Athos let his good eye gaze lazily about in the darkness that gave away nothing, just a silhouette of the person he imagined opposite him.

"They're not coming," it was a whisper.

"They are,"

He jumped in his skin and peered across at the still shape in the darkness. He hadn't thought his mind would retaliate so loudly, or with so much conviction.

"They are not," he said.

"You'll see,"

And it was not just the certainty there but the voice his mind had chosen to use that brought a thick lump to his throat. Athos swallowed it down and tried to bury the ache in his heart that the words and the voice stirred in him. Of all the ways for his mind to argue it had to choose _his_.

" _The accusation is a fine way to stop the tongues of outspoken women."_

" _She had the girls. She lied. She brought her fate on herself."_

" _You're being too hard on her. She was protecting the girl, not deceiving you."_

Of course he would choose _him_ to be the voice of compassion. That man was the best at looking for the best in people. And Athos hadn't had that at his side for years now, when he had desperately needed someone to lighten the grim reality they had been living in, the best person to offer that had left him.

"They are not coming," he said.

"They are Athos; they would never abandon you,"

"You did,"

There was silence.

Heavy and long and encompassing.

And for once Athos was the one to speak first.

"You started it," he said.

Glared at the darkness, dared it to reply.

"Have faith in your brothers Athos,"

"You're telling me this?"

"Please have faith in them,"

And Athos laughed.

He didn't care that it turned into a cough, he didn't care that the cough tore at his chest, he didn't care that he couldn't breathe and he didn't care how much it hurt. Athos was done caring for the world that slipped out of his grasp.

When he came around again the room was filled with light.

Bright and golden and a perfect nuisance to his good eye. It took him several tries to lift the lid off of his good eye and long moments to finally be able to see. His head ached as if it had never stopped, he was still chained up, he was too exhausted for the mix of shivers and sweat that clung to him and as he slowly looked around the room again Athos noticed that she was gone but _he_ was there.

Looking back at him with so much worry and concern in those dark eyes that Athos had to look away, he could not face his own wishful thinking staring back at him. He was almost glad when the rattle of keys announced the door opening even though he was sure that it was not his rescue. The man who stepped inside was not one he knew, he was sure he would remember the face with a broken nose if he had seen him before.

"Spent the night sharing secrets then?" the man asked.

Athos had no idea what he was talking about.

"Good, good," the man went on, "of course you shared secrets. Now it's time you let me in on them."

Athos tried to sit up straighter against the wall, pressed his hands against the floor and pushed up, but his elbows buckled. Exhaustion threatened to sweep his consciousness away even as his vision blurred.

"Captain Athos," the man crouched before him, "what did your spy tell you?"

He simply stared, his mind scrambling to make sense of the man's words and somewhere in the room his wife chuckled. Athos' gaze flicked away to the side to glare at her for mocking him and when he looked back it was to the glint of a dagger in the grasp of the man crouched before him. But the man hadn't pointed the weapon at him, instead it was held snug in his other hand, the one that was keeping the dagger angled upwards, it's tip grazing the skin under the jaw – not Athos' jaw but _his_.

"What did your spy tell you?" asked the man.

Athos stared past him, at _his_ face. The pale, haggard face that was too calm for someone with the sharp tip of the blade pressing under their jaw. He looked back to the man wielding the weapon and frowned. He couldn't understand how this man was seeing _him_ , how was he threatening a figment of Athos' imagination.

Unless – unless –

"If you don't talk Captain this man will lose his life,"

Unless his captors had brought some other prisoner to get him talk like Luys had used the French soldiers. Athos looked back at _him_ , there were red drops trailing down thick and fast along the edge of the dagger but the man hadn't made a sound. Or had he? Surely no one would sit quietly while they were being stabbed through the jaw - they would protest, they would try to move away. Since he was seeing and hearing people who weren't there it was possible that he was not hearing the people who actually were, Athos shook his head, cringed at the sickening pain the move left him in.

"Captain Athos," there was that voice again.

It didn't drown out her voice that was whispering in his ears, words that he couldn't understand. And then she was laughing at him – with him – he couldn't tell the difference. Athos swallowed hard, the swirling sensation hadn't stopped from his previous attempt to shake loose his thoughts and he could only manage to open a sliver of his good eye. The blurred view was no help and he was sure unconsciousness wasn't far away, he couldn't see _him_ any longer and wondered who the poor man was upon whom his mind had painted _his_ familiar face.

"You need to talk Captain Athos or your friend will die,"

"Kill him then," Athos breathed out, "he's not my friend."

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite or review this story. Thank you dear guest reviewers; Beeblegirl, Jmp and Debbie thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me.**

 **So they've finally met; well they were face to face at least; sort of; in a way... :)**


	15. Chapter 15

His heart stuttered.

The words cutting deeper than the point of the dagger that was stabbing under his jaw. With his neck arched to avoid the lethal push he swallowed down the pain of his friend's words that was worse than that of the wounds he carried.

"Are you sure?" Bert asked.

Athos didn't lift his head where it had dropped for his chin to rest on his chest, he didn't look up again at Aramis and the man poised to end his life.

"Yes,"

The one breathy word was like a punch to his gut and Aramis held back a wince. Athos was wounded and running a fever he reminded himself, it was something that was confirmed the second the hazy blue eye that was not swollen shut had flickered open to see him. It was just the confusion talking Aramis told himself again.

"Captain Athos are you willing to let your friend die for your silence?"

Athos stayed his words, but the low groan that came from the usually stoic man clenched around Aramis' heart and squeezed.

His friend was confused and hurting; he was in pain enough that he hadn't been able to recognize the man before him for who he was, Athos had looked him in the face and not believed that he was there – at least that's what he hoped it was as Aramis had kept his peace, latched onto silence even when his heart begged him to correct his friend, to tell him that he was there.

But he had kept quiet, his words locked in his helplessness because he was acutely aware that he couldn't do anything at the moment to help his friend; the chain holding him in place was too short for him to reach Athos and even if it hadn't been the pulsing ache in his swollen shoulders left him no strength to offer movement. He had bit the inside of his cheek to keep his silence, not sure if his body was hurting more or his mind; until Athos had doubted his friends, doubted the brothers not there and it was something Aramis couldn't bear to listen to – but now he couldn't even offer any words to Athos lest they may trap the two of them further.

"If you're so prepared to condemn him to his death then look your friend in the face and say so,"

But he had already, the voice in the back of Aramis' mind murmured. Athos had looked to the two of them and declared that Aramis could die, that he was not his friend – he doesn't know you're here with him Aramis snapped at the voice in the back of his mind; held on to that thought like his final shield against the battering-ram threatening the defenses in his mind. Ignored the grin on his tormentor's face and looked to the man across from him. Athos was breathing heavily, the shivers hadn't abated and Aramis was sure that they had only lost the intensity because the man was too exhausted for his body to offer any stronger resistance. It was the burn that was causing the fever Aramis could tell, the same burn that he carried now in the same place on his shoulder front.

Numb fingers twitched where the weight of the shackles kept them in his lap as the instinctual need to help, to save, to ease the pain of the man he considered his brother fought against the pain that held him in place. And just like that he was all too aware of the shivering pain in his own tired muscles, of the twisted, cutting ache in his back. Wounded and bound; he couldn't move, not if he wanted to keep the dagger from pushing all the way through under his jaw.

From across him he saw Athos' slumped form shift more deliberately, the shivering limbs pulling inwards as if to gather any remaining remnants of strength and the swollen face lifted, the blue eye looked from his face to Bert's then back again at Aramis.

"He is not my friend," Athos said, "You may take his life,"

And Aramis flinched.

The Bonacieux house came to his mind and with it a weary, tied up presence at his side.

" _Your name is held in contempt amongst your old comrades. You're a coward and a deserter. For that alone you're under sentence of death."_

Athos still stared at him.

And Aramis dropped his gaze.

Couldn't find it in him to look his friend in the eye; he could not blame the man before him, even if there was a chance that Athos believed him to be there with him and still wanted him dead there was no one to blame for the man's words but the decisions that Aramis had taken. His jaw twitched, something breaking and settling in him, an acceptance that even after nearly four years hadn't succeeded in taking form until then, until that moment – when it did.

The snick of a pistol readying to shoot pulled him out of his thoughts. Aramis glanced up at Athos whose head hung between his shoulders then to the man crouched between them.

"I see," Bert said, "it seems one of you had met the limit of your usefulness."

Aramis blinked, gaze shifting to the weapon that was aimed ready in their captor's other hand, the weapon that was pointed at Athos.

"No,"

He moved before the mummer was fully voiced, ignored the dagger cutting longer and deeper, his back shuddering in protest and the lancing fire that spread out of his shoulders as he threw himself onto the man before him. Ignored it all as he knocked Bert down even as the shot rang out and the blinding pain in his muscles threatened to claim his consciousness.

Distantly he was aware of someone cursing, the bang of the door thrown open and the sound of another shot echoing in the room before the world was muffled; pain and fear warring in a thick haze that blanketed him. The only clear thought was Athos, he had to find Athos.

Hands grasped his arms and eased him up, propping him against the wall at his back.

"Captain? Captain were you shot?"

Of course not, it wasn't him Bert was aiming at it was Alo – no not Alois –

"Athos," he breathed out, "Athos, he shot Athos,"

The hands on his arms held tighter, kept him steady until his head stopped rolling against the wall behind it. Forcing down the bile that burned in his throat Aramis blinked open his eyes. Devereux's face was creased with worry and beyond that was the lifeless form of Bert laying in a pool of blood.

"Athos," Aramis said.

"I'll check on him," Devereux nodded.

Yet the man didn't move away from where he was holding him in place and Aramis realized he would have slid to the ground otherwise. He shifted his weight, ignored the various pains that flared anew and nodded at the man before him.

"Check on –"

"Athos, yes," Devereux said.

But he was still staring at Aramis, eyes shifting from his face to his front then back again even as Aramis tried to swallow down the sick feeling rising from his gut; his throat hurt. His hands struggled against the weight of the shackles and pain but didn't rise fully to actually reach the wetness he could feel on his neck. The wound under his jaw bled freely and Aramis grimaced before he nodded; stopped at the first motion and breathed out through gritted teeth.

"Captain?"

There was an uncertainty in that voice that he had never heard in the years they had been together. It urged Aramis to ignore the bleeding wound and the agony flaring in his back as it scrapped against the wall in his effort to straighten.

"I'm fine," he said, held back his surprise at the strength in his own words, "check on Athos,"

"You're throat's bleeding,"

"Under the jaw," Aramis said, "and it didn't go all the way through,"

Devereux looked down at his front where Aramis could feel the wetness before he glanced back to meet his gaze. The man looked like he was about to throw up but Aramis couldn't have that, there was no time to break down, no time to stop and stitch the wounds and he wasn't even sure if the man he had suffered for was even alive.

"Athos," he insisted.

Felt the knot of worry tighten in his gut as the man before him finally stood to move over to the other prisoner; Aramis prayed that his friend was still holding on, he prayed that he wouldn't lose the man he called his brother after all.

"The bastard's shot hit the wall," Devereux said over his shoulder as he crouched before Athos, "this one's unconscious; coming around actually."

Relief washed over him like a gentle spring breeze and Aramis refused to acknowledge all the pain that followed on its heels. He watched Devereux turn back to the fallen Captain of the Musketeers and tilt his head as if concentrating.

"I'm trying to help you," Devereux said, and Aramis couldn't see nor hear what the reply was before the man shifted back abruptly, throwing out a hand to balance himself in his crouch.

"Another stubborn idiot," Devereux growled.

Aramis met the dark glare Devereux shot him as he stood up.

"Knocked himself out again," Devereux answered his unasked question, "not before he tried to punch me though,"

It tipped up the corners of lips in a manner his face seemed to have forgotten and stirred something oddly affectionate in his heart. Athos was still alive, still fighting. Aramis held onto that feeling to anchor his racing thoughts and banish the protests of his body as he leaned forwards; his hands reaching for the keys in Bert's belt, teeth gritting against the pull in his muscles that stopped his arms to rise even halfway.

Devereux wordlessly snatched up the jumble of keys and nodded before he turned back to Athos. Aramis looked to the open door, mind snatching at the inns and outs and the posts of the men he had seen the previous day.

"Someone should've arrived by now,"

"I think they'd assume that one of the prisoners had just met an end by that shot. Besides, over half of the men left about an hour ago," Devereux said over rustle of metal as he searched for the right key to free them, "While we were out scouting, the forward scouts told us they'd spotted the French coming this way."

That was good, if the French were coming then so were his people, help was coming, it was nearer than he had thought. But a shot had been fired and the men left behind at the chateaux would come to see what the trouble was.

"What floor are we on?" Aramis asked.

"Fourth,"

"Least patrolled," he guessed.

"No way out other than the stairs," Devereux shrugged, grinning suddenly as the manacles around Athos' wrists clicked open.

"That's debatable," Aramis said as he pulled on all that was in his mind about this place.

As the plan shaped in his thoughts he caught the roll of eyes as the man before him knelt to free his hands and Aramis bit his lip to keep from gasping when the metal edges pulled out of the swollen skin of his wrists. He dared not breathe as Devereux muttered apologies while fresh blood left trails over the puffed blue skin.

"Not your fault," Aramis told him.

"I know," the man sounded angry as he sat back and glanced up from Aramis' wrists, "You can't move your arms,"

"Shoulders were dislocated but I think they were set before I was thrown in here," Aramis said as he pressed his numb hands to the floor and willed himself to his feet, staggering back to hit the wall when the world lurched under his feet.

He bit off the gasp before it could fully form.

"Idiot,"

"Get Athos," he hadn't the breath for more words.

His arms hung uselessly at his sides as he gathered the remaining bits of his strength, shoved back the chill settling in him and pushed away from the support at his back before he staggered over to Bert. Ignoring the vehement protest of his back he bent to pick off the weapons and ammunition from the dead man. He took the two pistols, tucked the dagger in his belt, forwent the sword and straightened, the world threatening to roll off balance as he did.

He hurt.

"Captain?"

Pulling in a breath through his nose Aramis drew straighter. Looked to the man who had Athos pulled up and draped along his side, there was no way Devereux would be able to fight through in that position, not if he had to fight for all three of them.

"The south wing," Aramis said.

"The destroyed south wing," Devereux corrected.

"The direct way down," Aramis said as he loaded anew the two weapons he had found on their captor; grimy fingers steady and confident around the familiar movements even as his arms refused to rise fully.

"You'll be able to use those?"

"I'll have to," Aramis said.

And moved towards the open door to peek out into the corridor; blinking against the flashing white spots in his vision he peered into corridor lined with open windows, glanced through one and the one across it at an angle through which he saw the guard by the stairs. He was coming towards them.

Cursing under his breath Aramis glanced back at Devereux who had one arm around Athos holding him in place as his other hand held his pistol ready.

"Go," Aramis said.

Didn't look back as Devereux slid out behind him and Aramis followed, eyes trained on the figure that moved across another open widow and another before he glanced out. Their gaze met and Aramis ducked just as the man fired.

"Go, go, go," he urged his companion.

Peered over the edge of the window and saw the man step back to yell at someone down the stairs. Aramis smirked even as he hurried to slide under Athos' other arm and hurried them along. The rush of the battle rolled back his pain and exhaustion as footfalls echoed out and Aramis glanced over his shoulder just as the guard rounded the corner as they rounded the next. The shot snapped on the bend of the wall behind them.

They came to stop at the edge of the crumbled corridor.

"I thought you could still shoot," Devereux said as he turned to set Athos down before he cast a glance at the broken wall before him.

"I do," Aramis said as he stepped back to press against the wall.

The dagger in his hand moving in a flash to burry in the guard as he came around the corner, his dying gasp drowned by Aramis' grunt as the move stoked the fire in his shoulder.

"I needed him to call the others," Aramis pushed away from the dead man in his arms and went over to where Devereux had walked out to the edge of the broken wall and was carefully lowering himself on the remains of it, "I needed them following us here so that no one is left on ground to chase us there,"

"Buying us time," Devereux found his footing and looked up.

"Hope so," Aramis grunted under Athos' weight as he moved with him to the edge and lowered him down into Devereux's hold.

He really, really hoped so.

"He took the Musketeer!"

"There's no way out other than –"

"Yes there is!"

Aramis slid down onto the wall after Devereux as the man moved with Athos to where the wall ended over some remains of the corridor below. The shouting was getting nearer. Devereux eased Athos down first before they clung to what was left of the remaining wall and followed him down. And found nothing but air at the edge of that corridor.

Devereux cursed.

"The wall's a heap of stones under this one," Aramis told him.

And was relieved when the other man simply set Athos down and crouching to grab the crumbled edge of the corridor he swung down, swayed once in the air before he let go to land on the flattest spot available. Aramis knew he would have to take Athos' full weight to hand him down at this angle. But he couldn't give in, not when Athos was still holding on, not while Athos was still in danger.

He grabbed his friend, prayed for strength and moved. Laid flat on his front and eased him down, bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming at the pain that the pull on his muscles caused as he managed to bring Athos' into Devereux's firm hold.

And then he laid there for a second and breathed.

Shivered as his body threatened mutiny; felt it ready to have him throw up and pass out right there at the edge of a crumbled corridor.

He was cold, too cold in the morning air that nipped at his skin where there was no shirt to cover it. Swallowing thickly Aramis forced himself on his hand and knees before he grasped the edge and followed Devereux's actions just as shots pierced the air above his head. The agonizing pull on his shoulders and back, the sickening swaying motion to get that momentum needed left him surprised when he still landed on his feet on the flat spot bellow. It jarred every bone in his body that rang out in pain like a bell.

"Captain?"

"Go, go," Aramis stood up, stumbled and fell to a knee before he pushed himself up again.

Even as curses and shots filled the open air Devereux was already moving ahead of him with Athos at his side, doing his best to find his footing among the tipped and slippery stones. Aramis followed, keeping an eye on their enemies as they caught onto their plan and decided to follow.

"Now what?" Devereux gasped as they made it to even ground.

Aramis looked to where the guards were following in their steps and resisted the urge to shoot the first one he laid his eyes on as he picked the one who had found his way down faster; that was the one Aramis fired at.

"There has to be a boat," he told Devereux, "they're using the river, there has to be a boat."

That was the gamble he had made, everything he had planned for their impromptu escape had hinged on this hunch, this boat.

"A boat – I never thought – there!"

Aramis glanced at the direction Devereux was moving towards and saw it then, he murmured a prayer of thanks as he followed; fired at the Spanish soldier who had reached the ground even as he knew that it wouldn't really matter, that the rest were following. But all they needed were minutes, just a few minutes to put enough distance between them and the enemy. He looked back to the river, they were almost there and then the shots whizzed past.

Aramis pushed ahead to help Devereux with his unconscious friend; hauling Athos into the boat even as Devereux pushed them away from the bank. He held on to Athos as Devereux took up the oars; ducking as shots flew over their heads. The Spanish fired at them from the edge of the river even as the boat neared the other side. Aramis glanced over his shoulder; they were almost there, the boat nearly touching the ground.

Shots still sailed through the air out towards them.

"We're almost there Athos," he murmured against the sweat damp hair where he was hunched over his friend, "almost there."

A fresh volley of shots cut through the air.

The boat jerked and Aramis glanced up just as the ores stilled. Red covered Devereux's neck, bubbled past his lips as his jaw moved around a wordless gasp before he fell dead onto the boat floor.

* * *

He had been down these paths often in his dreams.

Had traveled many times through the forest they were riding through, the trails winding and the vegetation thick and just around the bend he knew it would appear; the monastery that haunted his sleep and lurked in the back of his mind in every waking hour. In the nearly four years it had been since his first trip to Douai he had retraced his steps to that monastery countless times in his thoughts. The outcomes in his mind had varied sometimes from the reality and the sting of betrayal had been all the more bitter each time he had woken from those dreams.

Porthos grit his teeth and urged his horse to move faster despite the slower pace of their march; refused to glance at the towers that touched the afternoon sky and dared not allow himself to think of the man living within those walls.

The faster he could put the monastery behind him the better.

Athos was waiting for them. There was no time to think of the past when his brother's future hung in balance. It took everything in him to keep somewhat in line with the other Generals, to not gallop on ahead like he wanted to. It was clear d'Artagnan read that desire on his face as the younger man drew up at his side.

"You are testing General Lantier's temper with this haste," d'Artagnan smirked.

"It's my pleasure," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan snorted and glanced up to the side. Porthos didn't need to follow his line of sight to know he was looking at the towers of the monastery.

"You think we might see _him_?" asked d'Artagnan before he hastily cleared his throat, "I mean we could come across him in this forest,"

"We'd better not,"

Because Porthos wasn't sure he would be able to rein in his temper if they did, his patience was already stretched thin. He wasn't sure how he would react to seeing _him_ at peace when the brother who had suffered along his side in the war, the Captain who had led them on the battlefields was in the clutches of their enemy. If _he_ appeared in these woods and preached them to have faith Porthos was fairly certain he would punch that man in the face.

"He'sstill the best shot I've ever seen; I think he would offer to help if he knew Athos was taken," d'Artagnan spoke more to himself than anything else.

Porthos' jaw clenched at the words and his brows pulled into a scowl as he turned to his young friend.

" _He_ knew this could happen, _he_ chose not to help us, _he_ doesn't care if we die out here,"

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and Porthos realized a second too late that his words had come out in a snarl. He looked away and swallowed hard against the lump that had risen in his throat. It wasn't right that he should feel this heavy ache in his chest for the words he had voiced when the man who had abandoned them was at peace for doing so.

" _You'll get your justice, Porthos..."_

The words echoed in his mind unbidden and Porthos nearly reared his horse in surprise at the unasked for assurance that slammed into him at the memory.

"Porthos? You alright?"

He looked to d'Artagnan even as he steadied his horse; why his mind insisted to seek strength in the one who had left him weak with his desertion Porthos could not understand. Shaking away his thoughts he simply nodded and ignored the concerned look his young friend gave him.

"General Porthos," someone called from his other side, "General Garth is asking for you."

"Of course he is," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan quirked a brow and he shrugged a shoulder; not questioning the younger man when he kept his horse close to his own as the two cantered ahead to see what the other General wanted. They broke through from under the cover of the trees and reached the man who had ridden on ahead to the edge of the hill. The General didn't regard their arrival and Porthos followed his line of sight to the vast stretch below. In the glare of the noon sun hanging high over the expanse the Spanish army stood waiting; and beyond them, by the river was the chateau he had been told to be their hidden post. Porthos didn't let the surprise at their numbers show on his face; instead he studied the chateau, trying to come up with a route to rescue their brother.

"There is no way but through them," d'Artagnan said from his side.

"Then we'll cut a path of blood," Porthos said.

"You are not even sure if Captain Athos is alive," General Garth finally looked to them, "and I don't think they would let their post fall as easily as you wish."

"We'll find a way," d'Artagnan shrugged, "we have to,"

Porthos nodded, his gaze not pulling away from the place that held Athos captive.

"And we'll know General if –" he stopped short, his eyes closing at the words he couldn't voice, "we'll know if there is something to know," he said.

He was glad the man didn't ask him how, Porthos had no words to explain this reassurance that he would know, he would know if one of his brothers were lost – they had come so far in this war, survived for so long against so many odds that he was sure if he lost either of the men he saw as his brothers he would feel the loss as acutely as he would feel a limb cut off.

Porthos heard the General at his side move back to issue orders, he knew that he would have to follow and order his men to fall in ranks too and suddenly he was all too aware of the weight Athos had carried for nearly four years. He would command men into this battle and there would be lives lost, for all his strength Porthos wasn't sure that he was ready to carry that burden.

The soft huff from the horse on his other side had him turning to look at d'Artagnan, the corner of his lip tipping up as he noticed the younger man had pulled his horse closer to his. When the dark eyes met his there was strength there, a promise of helping each other carry what may come and Porthos was glad he was not alone for his first time in command.

"I've been thinking," d'Artagnan said as he glanced over his shoulder the way they had come, "I'm almost thankful that _he_ didn't join us in this war, at least one of us would survive. I mean we ride into battles and there is every chance that one of us might not make it back. It's a comforting don't you think? To know at least one of us will surely live through these times? "

" _He_ isn't one of us," Porthos said, "not anymore,"

D'Artagnan raised a brow.

"You'd rather he die out here with us than live a long, happy life?"

Porthos bit his cheek at the thought of _him_ dying; the image of that man lying bloody and gasping for breath in some battlefield left him flinching. But then the sound of wine pouring in a red stream over dirt came to him from a distant time and with it a promise.

" _Well, here's to us dying together on some forgotten battlefield while Bonnaire ends his days old and fat and rich."_

Porthos' fist clenched around the reins in his grasp and his eyes hardened as they met d'Artagnan's.

"Yes," he said, "I do,"

* * *

It took him a few heartbeats to understand; for reality to make sense.

Aramis blinked at the red swirling in the base of the boat. Curled over Athos he shook his head slightly as shots still pierced the air. Swirling, Devereux was dead, his blood mixing with water, Aramis sucked in a breath – water, their boat was taking water.

Taking his chance in the lull he knew was simply for the Spanish reloading their weapons he lifted himself off over his friend's unconscious form and looked over his shoulder. The river bank seemed further away, the precious seconds had cost him as the boat rode the current without the oars to steer it. With a glance at Athos to make sure he was still lying on the bench Aramis grasped the edge of the boat and hauled himself over.

The cold water stole his breath, pushed it out in a hiss through clenched teeth.

It was only because he could see his hands that he knew he still had a hold on the edge of the boat and Aramis prayed his numb fingers wouldn't let go. He had to get them to the shore, had to get them to safety. And as the firing started again Aramis forced his legs to move, to swim towards the river bank as he pulled the boat along.

He nearly sagged in relief when his boots sank in the soft earth and he began easing them towards the higher ground. The water receded slowly from his chin to eventually down to his waist and then to just over his knees until the boat stopped with a jerk against his tug and refused to budge. The perpetual sense of motion lingered still, rose up as a bitter taste past his throat and up to his mouth.

He coughed, spat and clenched his eyes shut as he fell to a knee beside the boat that had run aground.

Gasping, shivering and bent over the boat edge he clutched, Aramis simply breathed. His shoulders burned, his back twitched against the pain that knifed every few seconds and he was sure the strange floating sensation was not a good sign.

Swallowing against the desire to throw up left him wincing.

His throat hurt.

Ached in a way it hadn't ever before and Aramis blinked slowly as he tried to remember why. His blurred view cleared with each swipe of his eyelids and he found himself staring at Athos' bruised face. With an effort he wasn't expecting he reached out and let his hand flop onto the man's chest. His eyes burned with sudden tears and gratitude rose as a lump in his throat when he felt the shaky rise and fall of the chest under his hand.

"Al'righ Athos, al'righ," he patted clumsily, "we'll b' fine, jus' hang'n a bit longer,"

Slowly he withdrew his hand and gathered his strength, forced himself up and nearly hit the boat with his face when his knees gave away under him.

His muttered curses drowned in the muddy splash.

Not now he told his body, not now.

And tried again, waited until the swaying feeling was only as strong as the water lapping at his legs before he reached for his friend. His fingers felt thick and heavy as they grasped Athos and Aramis looked to the friend lying dead on the boat floor.

"I'll be back," he promised, remembered the same words uttered in a snowy forest ages ago, " 'm not abandoning you, I won't. 'll be back,"

He had made the same promise to twenty men and he had kept it, Aramis glanced back to Athos.

"I may be a deserter but 'm a man of m' words," he told the unconscious man.

And heaved Athos out of the boat.

Ducked under his arm, pulled him close to his side and dragged his friend through the muddy water, up the river bank and beyond. He staggered over to the nearest tree; nearly slammed into it in an effort to remain upright. Gulping on air and closing his eyes against the dizziness he made sure to keep Athos pressed to his side. Aramis knew he wouldn't be able to pick him up again if he dropped him.

"Y'don't have to,"

And Aramis almost did drop him as his eyes flew open and he tightened his hold at the last moment when he felt Athos slip from his grasp. His wide eyes looked to the side and met the hazy blue one opened at half-mast. Aramis' lips twitched up despite the situation.

"Y'don't have to," Athos repeated, "y'musn't"

"Musn't what?" he asked.

Hefted his friend closer and pushed away from the tree he was leaning against. One step, two step, three step; he kept his gaze towards where the trees rose up in a gentle incline. The French would be passing through there, he just had to get Athos close enough. He glanced at his friend who was trying to take some of his own weight as they stumbled along.

"Y'don't need t' stay," Athos murmured, "t' wait f'r me every nigh' an' get me home,"

"Night?" Aramis frowned.

His eyes narrowed against the glare of sunlight as they passed through a beam spilling across the tangle of leaves above. They were getting closer to the forest on the hill and Aramis hoped nearer to the French as well. He shivered as trails of sweat made their way down his back, the cold hadn't abated and it kept up the trembling under his skin as numbness tried to spread out from his extremities.

"I don't need 't – y'don't have't –"

It was the same conversation, the one they had had over a hundred times across as many nights as the two of them had stumbled along in Parisian streets while the city slept. It had taken a long while for Athos to stop insisting he didn't need him helping him home in those early days of their friendship, days when Porthos hadn't found his way to their regiment yet and Athos was still locked away in a haze of wine and guilt like a relic in mountain fog.

And Aramis found nothing new to add to the conversation, he offered what he always had.

"I have you 'thos, I h've you," he said.

Athos stopped suddenly.

Aramis tripped up and threw out a hand to brace against a tree lest they both crashed face first into the ground. Far too weary to make room for surprise or anger he simply looked to the man whose arm had slipped away from around his neck. Only Aramis' arm around his back was keeping Athos up and close to his side.

"Y'll g'me home, like always, y'll bring me home," and there was a certainty there that took Aramis' breath away.

Never in all those times had his friend said those words let alone with so much conviction. Aramis swallowed hard and wished that he could keep the promise that came next.

"I will Athos," he said.

And pulling his friend's arm around his neck he steered them ahead. Grit his teeth and kept putting one foot in front of the other long after he felt Athos' fumbling steps to falter and then taper off to nothing. He stopped only to feel his friend breathe before he moved on; ignored the pains and aches, the shortness of breath and an emptiness that was creeping into his limbs.

Not yet, he told himself, not yet.

"Rene?"

He stopped short, stared at the blurred figure moving towards him and his fingers tightened where they held Athos.

"Rene! God! Rene what –"

It was a woman, she looked shocked, horrified.

"Kitty," the name came to him through the fog in his mind.

"Captain!" another voice.

A young man behind her, two of them, were hurrying closer.

"Oh hell, he's still bleeding," third voice.

"His throat – damn! Captain?"

He looked from the three before him to the fourth person who had spoken.

The world seemed to have sunken into a well, darkness edged his vision and Aramis blinked rapidly. His people were there, he had found them, or they had found him – it didn't matter he reminded himself. They were looking at him, eyes wide and expectant.

Not yet, not yet.

Aramis pulled himself straighter and Athos with him.

"Alois and Devereux," he said, forced the words past his lips no matter had bad they tasted, "they didn't make it."

It nearly cut him at the knees spoken out loud.

Not yet.

He forced his knees to lock in place.

"Devereux took Alois to the monastery," he went on, "One of you will take Athos to the Musketeers while I get him. I'll get Devereux."

And Kitty stepped forward, without a word she took Athos' weight from him.

Aramis swayed.

Not yet.

"Captain," Mousequeton said, his hand coming to rest on his arm.

"Yes?"

"You're bleeding,"

"I am," his voice came out steadier than he was feeling, "Kitty can you get him to the Musketeers without them catching onto you?"

She nodded.

"Hurry then, he needs a surgeon,"

"He's not the only one," Bazin said.

And Aramis looked away from where his gaze was following Kitty as she held onto Athos like he had and dragged the man along; she had always been stronger than any of them had realized. He blinked at the three men staring at him.

Three?

Alois was dead and Devereux –

"I'll get Devereux,"

"I can do that," Planchet stepped closer, "where is he Captain?"

"In the boat, at the river," he said, "I have to go back,"

The hand on his arm tightened its hold. The younger man before him shook his head as he stepped closer still and grasped his other arm. Planchet's gaze skittered down to his wrist then up to his neck before he met his eyes.

"I'll get him Captain, you have my word,"

"I need to –"

"I will meet you at the monastery," the younger one said.

And then he was off towards the way Aramis had come from.

It took an effort for his gaze to pull away from the receding figure, for his thoughts to form and connect. Aramis turned in time to see Bazin coming closer to his side. The younger man lifted his arm to duck under it and Aramis gasped. Hot, white pain lanced in his back and met the one rippling out from his swollen shoulders in a clash of serrated edges.

"Captain?"

"His back –"

"I don't –"

" –tain?"

The world muffled, tipped, as his knees folded. His hopes and prayers and wishes and sheer stubbornness snapped like a rope pulled beyond its limits.

And Aramis knew no more.

* * *

With a cry of rage he brought his sword down on his fallen enemy, buried it point straight into his chest.

Breathing heavily d'Artagnan pulled it out and staggering back he whirled around for the next soldier attacking him. There was none. Wiping the sweaty hair away from his eyes he studied the battlefield, searched for Porthos even as he stepped over the dead and dying and moved towards the retreating enemy. The Spanish were moving back, back towards the chateau and he couldn't have that, they were holding Athos in there.

Someone grabbed his arm and d'Artagnan swung around with the sword shifting in his grasp, the edge of the blade stopping a hair's breadth away from the other man's neck.

"Porthos?" he breathed out, lowered his sword, "we must give chase,"

"They hold higher ground," his friend pointed out.

And d'Artagnan saw their soldiers who had given chase falling dead as shots rained from the chateau. The soldiers inside were providing cover for those who were retreating.

"But Athos –"

"We're laying siege," Porthos said, "and we'll break in tonight."

"Tonight? One more day then?" he pulled his arm out of his friend's grasp with more force than it was necessary, "For all we know Athos would be dead by then!"

"We can't just storm their post,"

"I thought that was what we were doing!"

With the thrum of the battle still loud in his veins it took him a few breaths to realize he was standing toe-to-toe with the man he considered his brother; and that he had been screaming. Guilt washed over the blinding rage that had kept him alive in this last battle and d'Artagnan looked away.

"I'm sorry I –"

"We didn't expect them to leave reinforcements behind or even plan a retreat, they've clearly set up a hold here," Porthos said, his voice almost apologetic, "I cannot order men into a line of fire without a plan,"

And looking at the battlefield d'Artagnan understood that. He put his blade back at his side without even wiping it clean and studied the building a little distance away. It was old but solidly built, the Spanish could guard it for weeks if not months depending on the supplies they had in there.

"We'll need an understanding of the chateau's layout," he turned to Porthos, "scouts to circle it from a distance and report back."

Porthos smirked.

"Already done that," he said, "we'll build the plan as details arrive."

Pressing a hand against his healing wound d'Artagnan nodded. Ignored the pull of new scrapes and wiped his face with his sleeve as his mind went to the river they had found flowing here; when they had rescued Athos a washing was in order.

"Porthos! I mean General!"

They both turned to watch Cornett hurrying over to them. As the musketeer picked his way across the battlefield his face nearly splitting with the wide grin he aimed their way.

"General Porthos we found him," he said, "We found Captain Athos."

D'Artagnan blinked; blinked again and shook his head.

"You what?" Porthos found his voice first.

"We found him," it was almost a whisper this time.

"Where?" d'Artagnan breathed out the lungful he had forgotten about and grabbed the man by the shoulders, "Where?" he asked, "Where is he?"

Cornett jerked his head towards the way he had come.

"By the river, I think he escaped and jumped in it to g –"

He didn't hear the rest of it. D'Artagnan was hurrying away before Cornett could finish his thought. They had found him; Athos was close, closer than he had expected him to be. Stumbling over the bodies underfoot d'Artagnan moved across the battlefield until he reached the riverbank.

"There," Porthos said.

And d'Artagnan followed his line of sight to find the small group of men converged upon what he could only guess was Athos. He broke into a run, his heart matching his pace as he dashed over the wet earth and loose stone and pushed his way through the men he reached.

"Athos," it fell from his lips in a chocked breath.

He was on his knees fingers pressed to the side of the man's neck before he could fully take in his appearance. The slow thump of the heartbeat against his touch loosened the tightness from around his chest and d'Artagnan felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.

"Is he –?"

"Alive," he whispered, hand shifting to the side of Athos' face even as he glanced at Porthos, "he's alive,"

Looking away from the dark wet eyes of his friend he turned to the one they had believed lost to them. Brushing back the wet hair that clung to Athos' face d'Artagnan's hand ghosted over Athos' head even as his other gently turned his brother's face; worry jabbing at his heart as the swelling and the nearly black bruises came into clear view.

"Is that a burn?" Porthos sounded like he was going to be sick.

"He needs medical help," he managed past the lump in throat, "he needs – we need to get him to –"

He stopped short when he saw Cornett leading a horse to them. Looking back to Porthos he offered the man a nod, silently accepting the big man's place as the one to take Athos to the higher ground where they had set up camp. Between the two of them they lifted their fallen friend and once d'Artagnan had Athos securely in his hold Porthos moved to take his place in the saddle.

Other musketeers reached out to help him but d'Artagnan found his hold tightening and his steps moving away of their own will. He was not ready, not prepared to let his Captain go this soon and d'Artagnan shifted to keep Athos close. The shaky, too warm breath against his neck told him that his friend was still not safe.

But Athos had made it to them, he had found a way to escape and reach them.

"We'll take it from here Athos," d'Artagnan murmured against the damp hair, "you did good, we'll handle the rest."

"Here," Porthos bent to grasp Athos under the arms.

And d'Artagnan ignored the prickly feeling in his eyes as he eased the man up. Too soon Athos was out of his hold and Porthos was turning the horse away, setting it into a gallop in the next breath. His haste marking the still fragile thread by which their friend's life hung. Staring after them d'Artagnan felt his vision sway, the constant exhaustion, fear and the reality of death chasing at their heels for the past years washed over him. Poured into his lungs and threatened to drown him where he stood, too many close calls, too many wounds, too many hours spent agonizing over each other's safety carved into him; left him feeling hollowed.

D'Artagnan breathed in slowly.

And yet they had made it so far, battered and weary but alive. They had pulled each other through up till now but if he lost their Captain, if he lost his friend - d'Artagnan exhaled sharply and imagined Constance, pictured her face and wished he could fall into her arms. She was the only one with the strength enough to hold him together and he prayed he could get back to her. She was his light at the end of this and after nearly four years spent on battlefronts there was a sharp ache to see her again, for the first time the pain of her absence was as cutting as it had been the first day they had ridden out. He glanced back to the musketeer who had brought him another horse and as d'Artagnan grabbed the reins he looked from the river to the distant hill where the monastery sat.

This place had taken a brother from them and it had returned another.

D'Artagnan simply hoped that it hadn't only returned Athos just to take him away again.

* * *

 **Can't promise a hurried update for the next chapter but if I'd waited to finish that one, this would have been posted much later. So thank you for your patience if you've stuck by this story.**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. Thank you all the reviewers! Especially the guest reviewers; Beeblegirl, Chris, Jmp and Debbie who I can't thank individually. Thank you enjoyedit for dropping in with your kind words and encouragement. You all keep the writing fires burning.**

 **This was supposed to be the last chapter [I even put the summary of the next part on my profile if anyone is interested in checking that out] but it was not to be...**

 **so TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

His fists clenched at his sides in an effort to not collar the General before him; a threat that the bald man before him appeared oblivious to as he scowled back at him.

"No, absolutely not," Porthos said, "that's not happening,"

"It's the rule,"

"Don't care,"

"If you were a proper General you would understand –"

"Enough," said General Garth as he stepped between them.

Porthos didn't look down at the hand on his chest that warned him to keep his calm; instead he glared General Lantier who had voiced the rule to begin with. He couldn't believe that they were expected to send Athos back to Paris. It wasn't just that the man was in no state to travel but that he was their Captain and they had just gotten him back.

"We send the wounded back," General Lantier insisted.

"He could die on the way," General Garth spoke up before Porthos could; "the surgeon is still with him as we speak. We cannot risk setting him on the journey home while in need of a surgeon's care."

"Oh and what would you suggest?" General Lantier asked.

"Once Athos is awake we will discuss the matter then. Is that alright?" General Garth asked.

It took a moment for Porthos to realize that the man had turned to him and he glanced at General Garth before setting his hard gaze back on General Lantier.

"We're not sending him back," Porthos said.

"We shall see," said General Lantier.

And it took everything in him to not knock the man down as the other General turned on his heels and walked away. Clenching his jaw shut Porthos breathed through his nose and looked to the General still standing before him. He glanced at the hand still on his armour and his words left him in a growl.

"I'm not going to shoot him in the back if that's what you're afraid of,"

General Garth let his hold drop and ran a hand down his face instead. Porthos almost felt guilty for his tone. The man had helped them in what manner he could; twice he had understood their need to search for a brother, be it on a mountain slope or the Spanish camps. General Garth had been a friend in a way –

" _Porthos, my friend, I think it's time for us to go fishing for a patroness..."_

He flinched.

An ally then; he had no more room for friends. With a grimace Porthos pulled away from those festering thoughts and lightened his voice.

"I give you my word if I shoot him it'll be in the face," he said.

"Just make it look like the Spanish did it, will you?" General Garth smirked.

"I'll try," Porthos shrugged a shoulder.

His gaze shifting to their soldiers below who had set up in half a circle around the chateaux. The Spanish had stopped firing at them and as the afternoon had waned campfires had popped up among the army laying siege. Porthos was more interested to know of those inside the barricaded building.

"How long do you think they'll hold?"

"If they are as well stocked as I assume then weeks maybe, maybe more," General Garth followed his line of sight.

"The Minister will need to know,"

"I'll be sending riders this evening," General Garth said.

He nodded more to himself than anything before he looked to Porthos again.

"Go, be with you friend while you have the chance," he said.

Porthos couldn't keep the surprise from his face. His men were down there, he had to be with them, it was his duty, his place and yet Athos –

"A General can pass on some duties for a certain time. A privilege of the rank should you wish to avail it," General Garth said.

Porthos looked back down to where he assumed his men had set up their ranks, from the distance he could hardly see their faces but he didn't need to. He had seen the renewed determination in those stances and elation in battle-weary eyes when they had been told that their Captain had returned alive. Those men had come to him in groups and offered him fierce hope that Athos would pull through.

"I'll join them in an hour," he said.

Ignored the raised brow at his words as he turned away. It was far from the amount of time he wanted to spend with the brother he had feared lost but he hoped it was enough to return to his men with some good news. His steps quickened as he approached the tent where he had left Athos with the surgeon hours ago; before the word of the man's survival had spread like wildfire through their ranks and amidst the murmuring of Athos' courageous escape General Lantier had demanded they send him back to Paris.

His mind still fuming over those suggestions took some time to realize that the surgeon had stepped out. Porthos hurried forward, gaze travelling over the man in hopes of some sign about the news he was too scared to ask for.

"Basile,"

"General," he turned to him, wringing out his wet hands as he did, "what can I do for you?"

Porthos swallowed hard, pushed back his irritation as well as his fear.

"Athos?"

"I did what I could though there was lot I really can't help with," he replied, "There are cracked ribs I'm sure, four of them I wrapped but not much can be done for the bruises and they are deep, probably strained his insides."

That sounded neither good, nor hopeful. And Porthos had to remind himself not to even expect such from Basile; cold stones may offer him comfort in some circumstances but not this man, not to anyone.

"But he will heal," Porthos said.

It was a challenge rather than a prayer.

"Given time," Basile nodded and wiped his hand on his breeches, "I'm more concerned about the fever though. I cleaned the infected burn that had probably been the cause but that fever's already taken a firm hold."

Porthos refused to even think about Athos succumbing to a fever. He had survived being a Musketeer and he had survived battlefronts, he had fought his way to escape from the Spanish and had found his way back to them. It just wasn't right that he would be fell by something as common as a fever.

"And then there're the blows to his head he had clearly taken," Basile said.

"You don't say,"

"Like I said; I can't help with much," Basile shrugged, "if the swelling recedes and there is no bleeding inside and if his favor breaks before him. I think he'll live."

"Yes he will," Porthos said.

And walked past the man into the medical tent; his long strides faltering to a stop as he pushed through the flap. The harsh smell of herbs hit him first and his gaze fell on the man sitting in a chair by the bed. The corner of his lips tipped up slightly and Porthos pushed through until he was standing at the side of the cot where his friend was resting. At least he hopped that the stillness meant his friend was at ease and not simply too drained to fight for his life anymore. His gaze lingered over the stained bandage on his friend's shoulder and the burn he had seen there flashed in his mind. Porthos forced himself to look away.

"How did you get to stay back?" he asked.

"I am wounded remember?" d'Artagnan motioned to his side at the old injury there that he had ignored up till that moment.

Porthos smirked lightly and noticed the bowl then, set on the younger man's lap and filled halfway with water. He watched the younger one soak the rag he had in his hand before pulling it out and squeezing it part dry. D'Artagnan used the damp cloth to wipe at deep blue skin of Athos' face, the hand that wielded swords with deadly skill moved with a gentle hesitance over the swollen bruises.

"I talked to Basile," Porthos said.

"I'm sure that was delightful,"

He bit back a snort; his young friend had never liked the man despite the fact that they needed him. With a shake of his head Porthos stepped back to retrieve the chair by the entrance of the tent and set it closer to the narrow bed.

"He's overworked and seen too much hurt, compassion cools after a while," he said.

D'Artagnan smoothed back Athos' hair before he folded the damp cloth and placed it on his forehead, his fingers still hovered over it, unsure and cautious. His did not look Porthos' way.

"I knew a man who had seen too much hurt for one lifetime," he said, "who could stand guard for hours before shooting an enemy at a great distance, fight three more at a time when they were near enough; stitch up the wounded after and still find compassion for those under his care,"

The words had been soft, almost apologetic and Porthos stopped halfway from sitting down. His friend still wouldn't look at him but Porthos did not miss the twitch of the tightly set jaw, the pinched corner of his mouth and the carefully measured breathing. His brother was hurting, something he had missed during his sudden promotion and the resulting responsibilities that had buried him. It was something that _he_ probably wouldn't have missed had he been around.

But he wasn't there was he? He wasn't there to know they had almost lost Athos, that Athos needed his healing touch, that d'Artagnan needed his compassionate cheer and that Porthos needed – he didn't need anything from that man.

With a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh Porthos stood back up.

Stepping closer the younger man he reached out and grasped his surprised friend by the shoulder. The dark eyes that met his were unfairly young and Porthos' grasped shifted to the back of d'Artagnan's neck. He offered a gentle squeeze, hoping he could somehow reassure the younger man.

"Musketeers don't die easily remember?"

D'Artagnan looked away from him to Athos before his gaze shifted back. There was a wet sheen over the dark eyes and Porthos felt a rock lodge in his throat.

"I've been watching them die for four years now," d'Artagnan said.

* * *

He was cold.

Weightless and leaden; floating and sinking in a darkness that enticed him as much as it worried him with a sense of wrongness. Heavy frozen bones held together his emptiness as his skin felt like a stretch of chilled paper, thin and brittle. There was pain somewhere, embers buried across his being and waiting to burn anew as soon the chance arose.

"Are you sure?"

"He needs to drink this. There was too much blood loss," replied the man.

He recognized that voice; it was the man who had been there in the cold of Savoy, who had been on the other side. Was he still there? Were they?

A hand slid under his head, lifted it up slightly and a smooth edge touched his lips. The scent of cooked meat filled his nose and he remembered, the rack, the burning flesh, the stench of that room. Something sloshed over his mouth.

"Mind the stitches," said the woman.

"If he won't drink he'll just fade away," there was an edge of panic in his words.

"I'm not sure if he doesn't want that," her voice was tight, worried.

Did he? Could he?

The smell of cooked meat came again, washed over his lips and trickled past. It was glass, crushed glass that scraped a path of fire down his throat and tore it up in a cough. Ripped his breathing to shreds and set every hurt aflame.

"– him up, lift him –!"

The world steeped into a rushing wild heartbeat and curled into a single ball of ice and pain and frayed edges that stung like needles. The coughs scratched past his throat like a swarm of some rabid animals looking for escape. They clawed at the inside of his throat until there was no place left for him to draw a breath.

"–s that blood?"

His ears popped. Breathing finally came if only in a wheeze as it scratched down the ragged path, leaving fire in its wake.

" – s it, c'mon now Captain breathe. That's it. Please, please, just breathe, please,"

And with the words came the realization that he was leaning against something, something solid, warm and rocking. There was a hand still at the back of his head, tangled in his hair and another on his arm where the hold was almost painful. The rocking didn't stop and Aramis found himself drifting.

Slim fingers touched his face, tipped it up.

"The stitches are holding," she said as the touch receded.

"Then why is he coughing up blood?"

"Do I look like a surgeon?"

The arm around him shifted and pressed him closer in the hold, the grasp bordering on desperate.

"Look, Mousequeton I just meant–"

"We could ask the monks," the voice spoke from above his head.

"They told us he wouldn't survive the night," her dry voice turned smug, "and yet here we are,"

"They know nothing,"

"Precisely my point,"

He was lowered, gently set down on something that was far softer than he had had in the past four years. A weight settled on his forehead, the touch rough, heavy, a soldier's hand. It shifted to the top of his head and Aramis felt himself sink, ready to slip away under the frozen surface as the numbing chill settled again.

"Prove them wrong Captain," the voice spoke close to his ear, the warm breath ghosted over his skin, "I was there remember? I saw what happened in Savoy and you survived that. You fought until you couldn't and your friend brought you to safety. You still have friends to do that. So you fight Captain. You fight and you survive."

* * *

Two days.

Two hellish days of waiting and watching; for the Spanish to make their move and for his friend to turn a corner.

As the sky turned dark above him d'Artagnan trudged up the incline to reach the smattering of tents set up on the higher ground. Walked past the watchtower that was still under construction and towards the one place he had always returned to after his shifts. His feet moving of their own accord over the trail they had set in the last one night and two mornings, the stretch of time since they had found him – since Athos had found them. And while his brother's fever had broken before he had left that morning the man still remained unconscious. Basile had been full of examples of head injuries that no one woke up from and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth d'Artagnan swallowed back the bile that rose at that thought. He had looked down muskets and spears and cannons and still charged ahead without fear. This wait was yet the worst thing he had had to face, the fear it instilled was enough to squeeze his heart to a stop.

Refusing to acknowledge that particular monster lurking in his mind he pushed through the flap of the tent, eyes instantly seeking the sole occupant there even as they adjusted to the brighter glow of the lamps.

Athos was the same as he had left him, lying with a saddle at his back to help his breathing. He hadn't moved but there was a fresh bandage over his burn and the wrapping around his ribs had been changed too. Standing by the head of the narrow bed d'Artagnan reached out to cradle the side of his friend's lax face, the bruising under his hand had turned a lighter shade of blue and it was only him who could probably tell that the swelling had lessened from what it had been in the morning. His thumb swiped lightly under the eye that was still a little puffed and he swallowed hard; somewhere in there was the man he respected the most.

" _I'm looking for Athos,"_

" _You've found him,"_

With a sigh he backed away and hooking the chair close with the toe of his boot d'Artagnan sat down, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Even under the stench of the poultice Basile had been using to draw the infection from Athos' wounds, the smell of dust and gunpowder lingered, an ever present reminder of what had become of their lives.

His fingers curled in his hair when Porthos' grim face flashed in his mind, he hadn't missed the shadows of worry lurking in those dark eyes. They were down from four to three, he wasn't sure they could survive being cut down to two.

" _This morning you tried to kill them and now you're best friends?"_

His eyes burned and he pressed the heels of his hands harder against them. Rubbing his hands down his face he sat straighter, shifted to get comfortable in the hard chair for another night of waiting. His gaze went back to his friend, to the face that was turned towards him and the eyes – the eyes that were open. Slivers of hazy blue that were staring back at him.

D'Artagnan scrambled out of his chair and fell to his knees in his haste to reach the man.

"Athos?" he managed past a clogged throat, "Athos? Can you hear me?"

Dry lips parted but no sound came out.

"Wait, you must be – wait," he nodded more to himself than anything.

Hastily reached for the pewter cup he knew was set somewhere behind him. As his hand searched his gaze remained on his friend, half afraid that if he looked away Athos would slip back into unconsciousness. He offered a relived smile when his finger wrapped around the cup of water and he brought it to the other man's lips.

Athos drank slowly, but he didn't stop until he had drained the last drop.

"Thank you,"

"Don't," d'Artagnan stopped him.

He wasn't sure if he flinched at the raspy voice or the words of thanks. Instead he wiped at his eyes, his other hand coming up to grasp his friend's arm, fingers twisting in Athos' sleeve. There had been so much he had wanted to say to the man he considered his brother but nothing came to him in that moment; nothing except the overwhelming sense of gratitude.

"Thank you," he said, made sure to meet the gaze he had feared he would never be able to, "thank you for making it back to us, thank you."

Athos' hand shifted where it lay on the bed and he grasped his arm in turn, the hold was far weaker but it was there and that was all d'Artagnan asked for. They both looked away at the sound of approaching footsteps and d'Artagnan saw Porthos' frame fill the entrance to their tent.

The bigger Musketeer stopped short; his eyes widening slowly.

"Porthos he –"

The man had cleared the distance between them before d'Artagnan could finish speaking. The cot protested loudly when Porthos perched on the edge and reached forward to grasp Athos by the back of his neck, pulled him forward and met him halfway as he brought their foreheads together.

For a heartbeat or two there was nothing to be said.

And if there were three pairs of wet eyes when Porthos pulled away neither of them mentioned it.

"Welcome back brother," Porthos smiled.

The corner of Athos' lips curled up as he settled back against the pillowed saddle, but d'Artagnan didn't miss how quickly the gesture dropped even if his friend made no sound for the pain he was in. Refusing to let go of Athos' arm, d'Artagnan pulled his chair closer to the cot and sat down with a grin.

"We were going to rescue you, just so you know," he said, "but I guess you were in a hurry,"

"And you have no idea how glad we are for that," Porthos added.

"Wasn't alone," Athos cleared his throat, "someone helped me get free,"

D'Artagnan frowned and looked to Porthos; his friend was as confused as he was. Yet d'Artagnan couldn't forget that there were supposedly Spanish soldiers who had helped the French prisoners in their camp escape. They looked back to Athos who seemed to be drifting back to sleep and as much as wanted the man to rest and heal d'Artagnan couldn't let this slide. If someone had helped Athos escape, and he could not ignore the possibility of it being true, then that someone could be in trouble and needing help in return.

"Who helped you then?" Porthos asked.

"What?"

"Who helped you?"

"A Spanish soldier, dark skinned, said he was there to help me," Athos' brows pulled into a frown, "and he was there too, and she was there, found it all very amusing,"

"Who?" d'Artagnan asked.

Ducked to catch the man's line of sight when his eyes threatened to slip close and d'Artagnan repeated his question. It clearly took on effort on his friend's part and d'Artagnan smiled when the Captain of the Musketeers managed to settle his gaze on him.

"Anne, she enjoyed my suffering," Athos said, "but he didn't,"

"He was seeing people," Porthos shook his head.

"She offered no comfort but he did," Athos went on, his voice no more than a whisper, "he said you'd come, said I needed to have faith,"

And that had him glancing at Porthos. The one word at the end told them exactly who Athos had imagined and deep down d'Artagnan couldn't fault him for that. His friend had been hurting and feverish, there was every possibility his mind would have turned to _him_ for support in those dark moments.

A pained look settled upon Porthos' face as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan didn't know what he was offering. Support? Understanding? Explanation?

"I know, I know," Porthos said before he nodded towards Athos who had fallen asleep, "It just hurts to know that he's still imagining _him_ at his side when that man hadn't even glanced in our direction these past years,"

And d'Artagnan couldn't argue with that.

* * *

Heat stuck to him, clung to his skin, drenched his hair and cracked his lips.

He felt like a rag that had been used, and washed and wrung out one too many times. Limp and threadbare and held together by more neat stitches than cloth because he would just not fall apart at the hems. He would not break at the edges, he will not unravel.

"I don't know if you can hear me –"

"– us, we don't know if you can hear us,"

Two pairs of haunted eyes came to his memory as did the distant sound of wolf howls. Aramis became aware of the grip on his hand and another on his arm on the other side. Names eluded him, faces did not; grinning and excited and eager expressions on the two young men at his sides flashed in his mind.

"We just wanted you to know that we're still keeping up patrols around the French army,"

"Well we're taking turns –"

"–and its working fine."

"Perfectly actually," the other one went on, "your friends are safe and last night I was up in the tree when I heard the Musketeers' Captain had gained consciousness, apparently they were all worried over the blows to the head he had taken."

"You think he would be ready for when the siege ends?"

"Don't know; it could take days before that happens. The Spanish will stretch it out as long as they can,"

The hand on his arm clutched tighter.

"But as fine as things are we need you Captain,"

The grip on his hand held stronger too.

"He's right. Kitty and Mousequeton are worried you know," it was just above a whisper.

"But we're not,"

"Of course not," he cleared his throat, "I mean you're our Captain of course you'll be fine; right Planchet?"

"Absolutely, you'll wake up soon and it's just that we haven't seen you sleep much that is all,"

"He's right you know; you only sleep for two hours a day. We counted."

And he wasn't surprised that they did. Something cold and moist drew over his face, easing him back into lulling darkness. But his mind still lingered on few choice words; army, siege, friends. Something stirred, prodded at him and he tried to grasp at the fleeting ends of his thoughts. A chair screeched somewhere.

"Captain? Captain?"

"What's wrong?"

"I think he moved, his fingers moved. Captain?"

The voices felt nearer somehow, as if he had stepped closer to the door they had been filtering through. If only he could push that door open, there was somewhere he had to be, somewhere that was more important than anything else he had deemed worthy. But his body didn't seem ready to take orders from his mind.

"See that? See they twitched!"

"That's it Captain, come back to us now,"

"Or Planchet here will start bawling,"

"Me? You're the one about to blubber."

"Fine, fine, we're both turning into a pair of sniveling mess and things will get ugly soon if you don't wake up now Captain,"

He was close, almost there.

The darkness around him thinned, white spots burst through like silent musket shots as he forced his eyes open. The voices jumbled together, loud and excited and hammering in his head. Aramis grimaced and blinked slowly against the morning light. Each tug on his eyelids an effort he was not expecting.

"Captain?" the voice was thick.

Someone sniffed, cleared their throat.

His view cleaned slowly, the shapes hovering above him gained features and Aramis found himself staring at Bazin and Planchet. The lads were there with him, the others – he searched his mind to remember where he had sent them. And then it hit him, Devereux and Alois were dead, he had stumbled into his people while looking for the French army and –

"Athos," it tore through him in a breath.

Athos was in trouble and what was he doing lying here on his back? His people were missing and dead and his friends were in a bloody war of all things, probably engaged in a battle in this very moment and he had been sleeping? He surged up, legs swinging down the side of the bed he had been lying on even as his hand went to his side in search of a sword that was not there; he frowned when realized he hadn't his weapon's belt on.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Lay back down Captain!"

"Have you lost your mind?"

Hands pushed at him, gentle and firm in their insistence and Aramis pulled in a breath. His jaw hurt, his throat hurt, there was a dull ache in his limbs and a lurking soreness in his back. He managed to raise a hand slightly, his other clutching at the edge of the bed in a white knuckled grip.

"Lads," the hoarse voice that passed through his lips surprised him.

But the effect was instant.

The young men hovering around him quieted immediately. Aramis took a moment to let his vision settle and he found himself the focus of two of the most worried looks he had ever encountered in the past four years. Bazin still had a hand on his shoulder and Planchet had his arms spread out as if he was expecting Aramis to fall face first from where he sat.

"Report," Aramis said.

And he held back a wince; his voice was scrapping at his raw throat.

"The Spanish chateau is under siege, the Musketeers are safe for now and their Captain on the mend. We are at the monastery at Douai and Kitty and Mousequeton are out on patrol, it's a rotation we've set up." Bazin replied.

It came to him as the younger man spoke, details that his mind filled in to the succinct account presented him with a clearer picture. His neck felt stiff and his head too heavy for it, his body demanded the rest that was in reach but his mind raced to those he was responsible for. He needed to get out there and relieve those on patrol, if the French had laid siege then there was less of a chance of surprise frontal attack, he could keep an eye on the perimeter and send out his people to secure the routes leading here. He remembered that there was a traitor near their command in Paris, the larger net they cast the better it would be for keeping the supplies flowing to the army on this front.

Aramis didn't even realize he had stood up until he felt a vice grip around his arm. He frowned at Planchet who had stepped closer and forced himself to ignore the way the room spun softly around him.

"Something wrong?" he asked the younger man.

"What are you doing?" the other countered.

"I'm heading out to meet Kitty and Devereux, you two are coming,"

He stepped out of Planchet's hold and away from the bed; took two steps towards the door when his breath caught in his throat as pain rippled across his back. It jabbed and knotted in his muscles like rusty chains twisting upon each other and Aramis couldn't move. He couldn't pull in a proper breath; the pain sank its jagged teeth in his back and clamped on like a bear-trap. He felt rather than saw the two younger men move to his side and slowly guided him back to the bed. Aramis walked backwards, he dared not turn around and carefully sat on the edge of the cot. Closing his eyes he willed the barbed ache to recede.

"Give me a minute and then we'll –"

"No!"

Aramis looked to Bazin who was standing with his hand clutching at his hair, tugging on them enough to loosen them from where they were tied back at the nape of his neck. The young man shook his head as he turned to him and crouched down before Aramis, clasping his hand in his.

"You've been unconscious for three days. Your back is a mess; your shoulders' are just starting to go down to their normal size. The fever isn't broken and you're grey from blood loss and your breathing is off. Just stop; stop for a while," Bazin said.

Aramis' lips twitched up slightly.

"I've been at a stop for three days apparently," he said.

"You've been dead to the world for three days," Planchet said, crouched down beside his friend and grasped Aramis' other hand, "you nearly died. We know that you want to protect your friends and you have said you owe them everything. But not your life Captain, it can't be your life."

"There are some things more important than my life," Aramis said.

But looking down at the pairs of red-rimmed eyes that had shadows of sleepless nights below, he wasn't sure how to explain that; especially when they were clutching his hands as if he would disappear in an instant.

"No," Bazin shook his head, "maybe for you there are but not for us. You think Alois and Devereux thought that? That there were things more important than your life? They died – we would die to keep you alive. We all agreed to this for money but we stayed for something else. We stayed for this mission you've set for yourself. We are here for you Captain. We will lay down our lives before yours."

His eyes burned, his throat hurt for reasons that were nothing to do with the injury he had. For the first time since he had met these people Aramis could not look them in the eyes. His chin dropped to his chest and his gaze cast onto his own lap, didn't dare even to stray as far as his hands that were clasped each by the young men crouched before him.

"I didn't –" he bit the inside of his lip to keep his voice steady, "I didn't ask for this."

"Respect isn't asked for Captain it's earned," Planchet said.

"And you've earned it," Bazin squeezed his hand.

And what was he even supposed to say to that?

He had no words to offer, but for the first time since he had unbuckled the pauldron from his shoulder and pulled it off for the last time Aramis felt its weight again. A heavy, humbling honor that filled the spaces in his spine and made it easier for him to carry this position of command that he hadn't felt comfortable with since the first time it had been thrust upon him four years ago.

Stiff fingers curled around the hands holding his.

Aramis nodded.

"Good, good," Bazin held on, "now how about you lay back down?"

Aramis' back twitched and he had a feeling that if he did he wouldn't really be able to sit back up for a long time.

"I'll sit up against the wall,"

And Planchet stood to put a pillow there before the two of them helped him ease against it. The muscles in his back bunched up and held and it took everything in Aramis to not groan at the pain locked there. He held still, waited out the worst of it before he realized that he had clenched his eyes shut.

"Kitty thinks heat would help your back but we can't risk it with the fever," Planchet said.

"That's alright,"

"Now what do you need?" Bazin asked.

Aramis stared; his mind coming to an abrupt and complete halt at the question. The other two were looking at him in eager expectation and vaguely Aramis mused he had seen pups looking less enthusiastic at the prospect of play. But to their question he couldn't find a suitable answer, until he felt his dry throat threatening to close up.

"Water?"

"Of course! That should have been obvious!" Planchet hurried to table by the door, "I would have remembered if someone hadn't been a snot-nosed baby,"

"Have you looked at your sleeve Monsieur Sodden Handkerchief?" Bazin arched a brow.

He took the steel glass Planchet brought and handed it to Aramis. It nearly slipped from his fingers that didn't wrap around it as quickly as he had expected. Aramis was thankful when the younger man simply held it on for longer, didn't even bat an eye when their Captain used both his hands to grasp the glass that was thankfully not filled to the brim.

It was only then that Aramis noticed the bandages wrapped around his wrists.

He drank slowly, taking stock of his injuries and aches and marking his limitation even as his mind refused to take a break that was afforded to his body. He needed a report about their own supplies, needed to chart out the routes he knew were the most at risk, needed to make sure that they didn't bring trouble to the monastery they had apparently taken refuge in and he needed to send someone to check if the Minister had replied to his letter. He hoped that the Minister had caught the traitor at the command and he needed to visit Alois and Devereux and then meet with Luc – he was here somewhere.

Aramis looked to the two young men still standing by his bed.

"I need to talk to the Abbot," he said.

Didn't miss the way the faces before him fell slightly.

"And some broth?"

The way Bazin and Planchet beamed at him Aramis was sure he had said the right words.

* * *

He pressed his arm to the side of his chest and pursed close his lips, silently daring his friend to deny him the chance to sit up. A smile played at his lips when Porthos grasped the arm not stuck to his side and easily pulled him up. The large hand still held his shoulder as they waited out the dizzy spell.

"I'm fine," he said at last.

"And I have wings," Porthos snorted.

Athos refrained from rolling his eyes; even after an entire day of staying awake his mind was still feeling like porridge in his skull. But there were things that needed his attention and he could not delay them any longer. Taking a breath as deep as his sore ribs would allow he looked expectantly to Porthos. The bigger man sat on the chair set by the bed and crossed his arms before him.

"I will get it if you won't," Athos said.

Porthos nodded but still didn't move, didn't even look to the tent flap when it was pushed aside and d'Artagnan came in; a steaming mug of something in his hand. The dark eyes caught his gaze and the younger man grinned.

"You need to get your strength back," he said.

"I need to write to the Minister,"

D'Artagnan set the mug in his hands and pulled the other chair closer. Porthos plucked the mug from his fingers while the younger man helped Athos ease into the chair; the hard support at his back did wonders for his aching ribs. He accepted the mug and glanced towards the table at his bedside.

"I've got the supplies right here," Porthos said.

And Athos found himself staring at the bag his friend had dumped by the bed when he had entered. His writing supplies were apparently being held hostage. Athos took a sip from the mug in hopes it would appease his friends. But the way d'Artagnan rolled his eyes and sat on the bed it was clear his attempt had not worked.

"You won't get them until you finish this," he said.

"And you've still not told us why you need to write to the Minister," Porthos added.

He took another sip of the steaming soup and wondered how to explain his reasons. It had been over a day since he had woken up in this tent and he still didn't remember how he had gotten there. Bits and pieces, snatches of voices trailed in his mind when he wasn't trying hard to remember. But none of it made sense.

Athos jumped in his skin when he felt a hand on his knee.

"You're safe brother," Porthos said.

"I know," he looked away from the worried gaze, "I just don't remember how I got to safety."

"You said someone helped you, a Spanish soldier," d'Artagnan spoke up.

A face loomed in his mind and Athos shook his head to clear it away. He hadn't wanted to remember that, because if he did it would mean that he had seen someone real and it couldn't be. The people he remembered couldn't be real; Thomas was dead, Anne had left for England and _he_ had abandoned them.

"Athos?"

He looked to d'Artagnan and couldn't ignore the curiosity buried under the concern he saw in those eyes.

"I'm not – I don't know how that man helped me if he did," he said, "but he did say he was there to help me,"

"And we will forever be in his debt for that," Porthos nodded, "but that is not all,"

And Athos couldn't lie to him, not when the man wasn't asking a question but reading his hesitance clearly.

"I saw Anne," Athos' gaze dropped to the murky liquid in the mug, "and I saw _him_ ,"

He couldn't look up; he couldn't face the disappointment he knew was there in the dark eyes watching him. Because the memories of his capture may be vague but he remembered the despair that had wrapped around his heart, and he couldn't forget that in his darkest moment he had believed that Porthos and d'Artagnan weren't coming for him. He had lost faith in the brothers who had been at his side and found it restored by the illusion of one who had abandoned him.

"My captor, when he couldn't get me to talk he brought in someone to torture in front of me," he cleared his throat, "I thought it was _him_ , until I realized there was someone suffering while my mind was playing tricks on me and I told them to end it. But I don't know why I kept imagining _him_ there even when I thought –"

He couldn't say it; he couldn't hurt them further and tell them that he had given up on them. Athos didn't lift his gaze when he felt a hand grasp his arm but he couldn't look away when d'Artagnan ducked to catch his gaze.

"We're not upset for what your fevered mind conjured up," the younger man half smiled, "we're not angry with you,"

Sometimes he was surprised that there were people in his life who could understand his way of thinking. Athos felt something ease in his chest and looked to Porthos. There was a deep furrow between the bigger man's brows and his jaw was clenched close; his old friend wasn't angry he was furious.

"Not angry with you," Porthos nodded.

And Athos knew who exactly his friend was angry at. He could tell it took an effort for the big man to let go of whatever was going on in his mind. But rigid lines of Porthos' face relaxed and he shifted in his seat, giving a pointed look towards the mug in Athos' hand. Athos took a sip to oblige.

"But what do you need to ask the Minister?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I didn't tell General Lantier everything," Athos stretched out a leg and leaned more against the backrest of the chair, the questions and the hits he had endured roiled in his mind, "the Spanish were under the impressions that we had spies in their ranks that is true, but that is not all. The man they tortured in front of me was supposed to be one of those spies. But that was not why they didn't simply end my life as they intended for the other prisoners,"

"They took you for questioning,"

"I think they are the ones who have spies in our ranks," Athos said.

Raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he pulled at the thoughts his mind had stored away even though pain hadn't let him dwell upon them while he had heard those words. But he did remember the maps in the Spanish General's tent even when he couldn't remember the name he was sure he had heard, there had been a name and he knew it, it was on the tip of his tongue but refused to materialize.

"You don't trust General Lantier," d'Artagnan said.

"I can't," Athos said, his grip on the mug tightening, "because someone had been passing information about our supply routes to the Spanish. Those ambushes that had been a strain on our resources were because someone from our side is selling the knowledge about them."

"And they wanted to find out if you knew about this person?" Porthos asked.

Athos frowned and shook his head.

"Then what did they want to know?"

"Apparently someone else had been patrolling the supply routes that lead to us. That luck we were praising for the supplies that reached us when others deployed weren't getting theirs? Apparently it has nothing to do with fortune," Athos said, "our supply routes are patrolled and protected. Only ours."

"What? Who?" d'Artagnan sat up straighter, "and why? Why only ours?"

"That was what the Spanish wanted to know," Athos said as he tipped his head towards the bag that held the writing supplies, "and that is what I want to ask the Minister,"

* * *

 **...not much happening but some comfort for Athos. And Aramis too; sort of, if Aramis would let it be that way... :)**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you those who leave me reviews and the guest reviewers Debbie, Guest, Beeblegirl and Jmp; Thank you!**

 **TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

**Here it is; the last chapter of this story. Before anyone feels it is too abrupt I just want to you to know that a proper conclusion will be posted as the next story; which will be posted in a day or two. But this was where I had always planned to end this one.**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you guest reviewers Debbie, Thimble, Beeblegirl and Jmp. And a special thank you to enjoyedit; for your continuous encouragement that kept this story moving or it would have been still stuck somewhere ways back.**

 **Thank you all who had stuck by this story.**

 **Will be posting the next one soon!**

* * *

He ignored the presence behind him.

It had become a constant these past five days. After much mutinous glares and pointed huffs he had conceded to let one of his people stay with him. Which he felt was surely a completely unnecessary endeavor since he had started walking around three days ago and Aramis knew he did not – had absolutely never, needed a chaperon. He had to remind himself that there were good intentions at heart every time his extra shadow appeared at his heels.

"I'm not going to spontaneously start bleeding from my extremities," he said.

"That doesn't mean you won't try and tempt that into happening," Mousequeton stepped closer from where he had stopped a few feet away.

Aramis smirked, he couldn't pinpoint when they had become this familiar with him but in the past days he had become more aware of it than he had in the past years. It still had him raising a brow when the older man crossed the distance between them and laid a hand on his forehead, checking for the fever that had broken the previous morning. Aramis bit back the need to snap at the unwanted attention.

"You're cold," Mousequton frowned as he pulled away.

"Better than burning with fever,"

"Doesn't help with your back though,"

Aramis didn't need a reminder for that. He turned his attention back to the graves he had been visiting. No matter how many times he apologized for his shortcomings he knew it would not restore life. And yet he couldn't help but go through every action he had made, every plan he had developed and every situation he had examined. Over and over again he rehashed everything he remembered. Wondering what he could have done different, what he could have noticed or understood, that could have kept Alois and Devereux from paying the price of Athos' escape with their lives.

"You know the lads weren't wrong about respect," Mousequeton broke the silence.

"Which makes this even more difficult," he said.

Aramis stepped closer to the graves with another silent apology and a prayer before he turned back to the man waiting for him. Mousequeton stopped just short of grasping him by the elbow and even as he appreciated the sentiment Aramis' gaze slanted in a sideways glare. The man at his side stepped back slightly and they began their trek back to the monastery. The two they had buried were another weight settling over his heart and Aramis suddenly found himself wondering how he would feel if Mousequeton too died along the path he had chosen, or Kitty? Or Planchet? Or Bazin?

"Captain?"

He blinked, realized he had come to a standstill and looked away. The afternoon sun had begun its decent and he knew back at the monastery the children would be done with their lessons. He had promised Marie another story but Bazin and Planchet had asked him to wait until their return.

"Let's get back before the lads come back from patrol," he said.

He could not let the uncertainty show on his face, he would not think about what it would mean to lose his friends; because that was what these people were to him. Although he couldn't say when that had happened but losing two men under his charge made it very clear how much it would hurt him to lose any of those who trusted him with their lives.

His dark thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horse hooves against the ground. Aramis glanced to the man at his side before they both slid behind the nearest trees. But as he peered from around the tree trunk Aramis recognized the rider in the distance. He stepped into view, lips tipping up when the horse slowed from a gallop to a cantor.

"Captain," Kitty pulled her horse to a stop, "you didn't take a horse to come out here did you?"

"No change there," Mousequeton answered for him.

"I told you we should steal his boots,"

"Any letters?" Aramis asked.

The woman turned her gaze to him, looking him up and down as if assessing if he was going to faint. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching in his face as he kept from telling her exactly what he felt about this scrutiny. Her smug smile told him that she could understand his irritation and that she wasn't the least bothered by it.

"Madame Pascal said it just came in last night," she plucked the envelope from her belt and handed it to him, "there was also this," she handed him two brown pouches from the few she had tied in her belt.

Aramis frowned at the bags, the feel of it telling him there were coins inside but it was when he saw Kitty hand one over to Mousequeton that he understood what it was. He had told the Captain he had no use of the payments the crown made to him despite the man offering to collect it in his name, but staring at the yearly payment of the two men he had lost felt like a blow to the chest.

"Luc and Abbot," he nodded to himself before he cleared his throat and looked to the two staring at him, "they'll find good use for this."

He looked away from the understanding in the eyes watching him and tore open the letter instead. He wasn't sure if he should be happy or angry at the words that formed in his mind as they were de-coded out of habit. But Aramis could not say he was expecting this when he had written to the Minister before heading out to save Athos. Clearly the Minister had taken his time and collected more correspondence before he had deemed it time to reply to him. Aramis couldn't help but wonder what the reply would have been if the Minister had not received the information that he did in what seemed to be the few days that Aramis and Athos had been recuperating. Because clearly, that was the information these unexpected orders had been based on.

"Could you read it at the monastery? Some of us need to rest before going on patrol," Kitty said.

Aramis pulled his gaze away from the paper and looked to the woman. An inexplicable sense of loss knotted in the hollow between his lungs even as a part of him knew it was for the best.

"When the lads return; we have something that we need to discuss," Aramis said.

* * *

He read the letter for the seventh time since he had received it that evening.

It still didn't abate the unsettled feeling in his gut. There was something he was missing, something that the Minister wasn't telling him. Athos couldn't explain the feeling of being taken as the fool as he read the letter again. Sitting in the tent that had been his home for the past week he frowned at the words, at the explanations and orders that were simply not satisfactory. He would be the good soldier and follow his orders but he couldn't help but feel he was being placated.

He looked up when his brothers entered.

D'Artagnan dragged the chair close and flopped on it with a sigh as Porthos went to grab the bread and cheese Athos hadn't the stomach to eat that afternoon. As the bigger man took a seat as well, Athos couldn't ignore the shadows of exhaustion that the glow of the lamp deepened in his friends' faces.

"Trouble?" he asked.

"They've dug a trench and barricaded themselves," d'Artagnan drew a hand through his hair, "set it up in the firing range of the chateau. We saw the defenses being built and couldn't do a single thing to stop them."

"We do have fire power," Athos reminded them.

Maybe not canons but they could still shoot from a distance.

"Not enough," Porthos said and bit into the bread, followed that with the dry cheese before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "and even those are under General Lantier's control. I don't understand what he's hoarding all the ammunition for."

"I don't like that man," d'Artagnan shook his head.

"I wouldn't have guessed," Porthos smirked and raised a brow as he looked to Athos, "So? What did the Minister say?"

Athos looked down at his hand to realize he was still holding the letter. Folding it slowly he tried to ignore the nagging questions that the Minister's explanation had left him with. Shaking his head he pinched the folded paper, swiping at the crease before he set it on the bed beside him.

"Treville says that we just got lucky in the protection of our supplies," he said, "Red Guards had set up posts along the highways that connect to our regiment's position. The Spanish had, fortunately for us, been running into the Red Guard patrols while trying to rob our supplies."

"But you don't believe that," Porthos frowned.

"It is the Red Guards we are talking about," Athos raised a brow.

"Constance says things have changed back in Paris," d'Artagnan shrugged, "with most of our men deployed here, the city and the surrounding areas are rife with Red Guards looking for trouble. They wouldn't have let a chance to fight slide."

But Athos couldn't picture the Red Guards helping them, even unintentionally. He couldn't stop from wondering how many times, this coincidence that Treville called it, had been repeated for the Spanish to consider it a nuisance. Something must have showed on his face he realized because Porthos set the empty plate on the floor by his feet and sat back to give him a studying look.

"You think he's lying?" he asked.

"I can't find any reason why he would,"

"Then maybe he isn't,"

And another time came to his mind, another accusation that had been brought against their Captain and Athos remembered that despite the involvement of the Duchess of Savoy their Captain's involvement hadn't been proved.

" _Treville didn't admit anything."_

" _He didn't need to. It was written on his face."_

It had been a feeling then too, like trying to identify a hidden item with touch alone. And Athos had been reluctant to trace the shape even then; halfhearted in his desire to reveal what lay beyond the veil. So he nodded and let the matter rest for the time being; deciding to see if he could get to the bottom of it once he could talk to Treville face to face. He was about to tell his brothers about the orders they had received from the Minister himself when the flap of his tent was pushed aside and General Garth stepped in.

"Athos I –" he stopped short, his gaze falling on the folded paper lying at Athos' side, "I see you received the orders as well," he nodded.

"What orders?" d'Artagnan looked from one man to the other.

Athos looked to his brothers and refrained from rubbing at his temple where the headache was starting.

"The Minister has called us back to Paris," he said.

"But that would leave this front short of men," Porthos frowned.

"Not the regiment," Athos shook his head, "just the three of us."

"I'm told I will be the one taking charge of the Musketeers and the men that had been put under General Porthos' command," General Garth added.

Athos watched the news sink in his friends' minds even as he still tried to understand how he felt about this turn of events himself. Confusion, disappointment and shock moved across d'Artagnan's eyes before elation and a watery mist settled there that Athos hadn't the heart to call out on. But it was in Porthos' rigid posture and pursed lips he found something that resembled his own turmoil; a mixture of indignation and gratitude churned there. They had been at war for four years and Athos was sure he was not the only one who had realized once in a while that they would not be making it back alive to Paris. This war wasn't going to end, not likely in their life time but suddenly it had; for them at least. It felt insulting to be summoned back when there were still battles to be fought; ones that would be left to their brothers-in-arms. And those men may not be afforded the chance that they had, may never get that chance to go back home and for that Athos couldn't deny he was thankful.

"When do you leave?" General Garth asked.

"Tomorrow," Athos spoke without hesitation, "after the first charge at least; I will be a part of that."

His chin raised in defiance as his brother's looked to him. He dared them to deny that honour. It took a silent battle of wills; concern and understanding warred in the eyes that met his but in a matter of seconds Porthos and d'Artagnan looked away.

"Very well then," General Garth nodded, "I shall tell –"

"I would like to announce this to my men," Athos cut him off before he glanced towards Porthos; "I know they have been under your command old friend so I would like to ask this favor from you. If I could be the one to tell the men about these orders?"

Porthos met his gaze head on.

"They are your men Athos, their Captain doesn't need my permission to address them," he said.

And Athos found his reply stuck in his throat, words wouldn't come forth but the slight tilt up of the corners of Porthos' lips assured him that his brother understood nevertheless. His friend knew he would need to thank his men, he knew before they left the Captain would have to acknowledge the command that would be shifted from him to General Garth; Athos respected his men enough to owe it to them.

"Once you've let your men know we could sit down and discuss anything of concern with this change of command," General Garth looked from Athos to the other two, "I expect you both to be there as well,"

That brought d'Artagnan out of the reverie his mind had escaped in. Dark eyes narrowed in confusion as they went from his Captain to General Garth and Athos could tell the younger man was trying to calculate what the General's intentions were. This caution saddened him in a way he hadn't thoughts possible, as if something precious had been lost in the younger man he considered his brother.

"Athos' Captain, Porthos' a General," the younger Musketeer said, "Why do I need to be there?"

"You're d'Artagnan," General Garth said.

And left without another word.

Athos smiled.

* * *

They had waited until the night had grown old.

Until they were sure that no one would be riding out this far away from the French army camps and at least the shadows were deep enough to slip into if someone did. The silence was heavy, the walk slow and the only light to guide them was the glow of the moon above. None of those with their horses were in the saddle; instead they led the animals by the reins in a solemn procession, and stopped once they've reached the curve in the road quite some distance away from the monastery. The horses huffed at finding the even terrain underfoot even as the people were not overjoyed by it.

"This isn't right," Bazin shook his head.

"Athos suspects," Aramis said, "he will not be easily misled,"

"Then don't mislead him," Planchet shrugged.

Aramis wished he could say that back to the Minister; wished that he could tell the man to let Athos know, let his brothers know about this arrangement. And it seemed to him that Treville had expected such thoughts from him since the letter had emphasized the first condition laid by the Minister when he had offered Aramis this position; the one that told him that this group, these people and him, they didn't exist as far as anyone outside this arrangement was concerned.

The open corridor of the palace flashed in his mind, the flutter of Musketeer blue and the Cardinal's red swept in his memory.

" _Can't you control your own men?"_

" _They want to know the truth; it's a matter of honour."_

" _Honour? There's no word in the language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience."_

The corners of Aramis' lips turned up in a smile that was anything but happy as he looked for solace in the only comfort that the Minister had offered him; and that was news that Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had been summoned back to Paris. Pushing aside the sense of being stranded again Aramis forced his voice to be light when he spoke next.

"It wasn't supposed to last forever," he said, "like everything else this too would have ended eventually and this may be the best way for it."

And there was a truth in there; the truth that at least the lives of those left in his charge would be spared. It was what Aramis kept reminding himself as the others looked to him to change this decision. But it was not his decision to make; he was after all put in this place as the one man Treville could trust to follow the orders when they were given; even if they came far and few in between.

Even if he didn't like them.

" _You think you're entitled to an explanation but this is not your concern."_

" _You and the Cardinal as thick as thieves; that makes it my concern,"_

" _You think I won't have you arrested, that you're above the normal laws of soldiering?"_

No he wasn't.

Never had been.

Even when he had been the only one bucking under the chain of command, the only one standing up to voice what was to be silenced he had still been the lonely stubborn nail in the plank that refused to go down; and he had taken the extra blows for it. He may have been the one in charge here, the one with the decision and the plans but he was still held questionable by the Minister if only because he held himself to a responsibility. That he saw himself as accountable may be the one of only reasons he was following orders.

"We could stay," Mousequeton offered.

The others nodded.

"Say the words and we'll handle whatever your Minister sends our way for going against his orders," Kitty said.

Aramis watched each face turn hard and determined. The light of the moon glowing on suddenly grim features and he shook his head; tried not to feel the hurt that echoed out to him from the younger men at his refusal. Their faces falling and eyes widening slightly as if someone had trampled on their pet before their eyes.

"Don't you want us to stay?" Bazin asked.

" _Did you betray your own men to the Duke of Savoy?"_

" _You are meddling in complex affairs of state."_

" _It's a simple question. Did you do it?"_

" _Yes,"_

His breath caught in his throat and held. It was always the simple questions that had the most powerful answers. He had learned that at an early age; 'Maman, are you what they say?' 'Are you sending me away Maman?' 'Am I a bastard, father?'

Aramis held himself straighter, ignored the twinge in his back and the dull ache of healing wounds.

"No," he said, "I want you to leave,"

Because the other reason for following through these orders were the terrible consequences if he refused. If they didn't leave the people under his charge would be marked renegades. With no pay from the crown and enemies everywhere, he wasn't sure if the Minister himself wouldn't send assassins after them to keep the complex affairs of state a secret. He could not order them to slaughter, he will not ask them down the path that led to their deaths.

"So where are you headed?" Mousequeton turned to Kitty.

"Italy, perhaps Florence or Venice," she shrugged, "depends where I'm needed,"

"Not a holiday then?"

"Are considering coming along?" she smirked.

Mousequeton shook his head.

"I want to set up a tavern, the lads want a farm. We'll see what we can find between Paris and Rouen."

A part of Aramis he hadn't even realized was anxious calmed down at his words. He had been worried about Bazin and Planchet, it didn't matter that they had been working as mercenaries for years despite their young age; he still found that he wished they had someone to watch over them. Mousequeton's gaze met his and the man offered him a nod, a silent understanding and a wordless promise.

"Well then," Kitty suddenly stepped closer to him, her hands coming to rest on Aramis' arms, "farewell Captain,"

He laid a hand on one of hers, the corners of his lips twitching up even though he felt a burn in his eyes. He would miss her, he would miss them. But Aramis refused to let that cast a shadow upon what could be their last meeting.

"I would ask you to stay out of trouble but..." he shrugged a shoulder.

"So you have learned something," she grinned.

And leaned forward, her breath warming the side of his face as her lips hovered over his ear.

"Forgive yourself Captain, whatever it is that you believe to be the wrong you've done it can't be that bad," she murmured, "I've known bad men and you're not one of them,"

She pulled back and pressed her lips to the corner of his. Stepped away with a smile and throwing her arms around Bazin and Planchet dragged them closer for peck each on the cheek. Turned around and grabbing the front of Mousequeton's shirt she kissed him full on the mouth. Aramis grinned, Planchet and Bazin snickered and when Kitty stepped back Mousequeton looked like he had taken a blow to the head.

"I guess I'll be seeing you again," Kitty smiled.

"I – um – huh?"

But the woman had swung up on her saddle and with a final nod to Aramis she was riding away into the night. Aramis shook his head slightly as he watched the lads thump Mousequeton on the back to pull him out of the daze he had landed in. The older man looked to them in bewilderment before a slow smile stretched wide on his face.

"I knew she liked my cooking," he said.

And Planchet laughed, Bazin chuckling at his side.

This was how he wanted to remember them Aramis realized, alive, happy and hopeful. Shoving aside the thought of the quiet that he knew would be left in their wake he forced himself to smile. He would be staying at the monastery, days filled with silence awaited him but he hoped there would be peace too. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be all along, for him to know weariness this intimately before he could find a corner of the world to retire in.

"Are you sure you don't want to come along?" Planchet asked.

"It's taken me four years to reach here, maybe it is where I'm supposed to be," Aramis shrugged a shoulder.

Because maybe there was a reason this place beckoned him to stay, maybe there was a plan here he didn't understand yet. Aramis reached out to lay a hand on Bazin's shoulder, giving him a slight shake to rid of the sadness from his face.

"Write to me when you've settled," Aramis said.

"You'll be here?"

"That's the plan,"

And suddenly he found himself pinned in two pair of arms. Aramis had to lock his knees to stay against the impact of the sudden embrace as the younger men held on tight. Swallowing the rock that abruptly lodged in his throat Aramis wondered when he had apparently come to matter this much to these people.

"Alright, alright, let him breathe," Mousequeton pulled them off.

He grasped Aramis' forearm while his other hand gripped his shoulder before he looked him in the eyes.

"Thank you," he said.

Aramis nodded.

"Stay safe," he said.

Stepped back as the three men swung into their saddles, turned their horses and with a final look his way they urged the animals into a gallop. They needed to be as far away from this place as they could get in the cover of the night. Aramis waited until the distant echo of their departure dissolved into the night. He turned back then to the way they had come, began his long walk back to the monastery. That way were wide eyes and eager ears for his stories, sticky fingers and cold toes looking for their boots and hours of lessons and hide and seek. Aramis smiled into the night, a bittersweet gesture of one who knew what it was to keep moving on.

* * *

The air was colder.

Heavy with the smell of gunpowder and the clunking of armor as the armies fell into ranks.

He stood in the center of the regiment, gaze roaming over the barricade of sticks that punctuated the horizon and the canons set up between them. The hazy dawn dampened the colours, movements and voices. D'Artagnan glanced back at the banner they fought under and back at the enemy who had hoisted theirs as well. There was an odd feeling in his gut, like he had stepped out from under some shelter and into the roaring storm. He hadn't felt like this since his very first charge in this war.

"One last time then," Athos said.

"Can't believe we get to go home," d'Artagnan shook his head, "this is it, our chance to leave a mark,"

The Captain's hand landed on his shoulder and d'Artagnan looked to the side.

"Don't be a hero," Athos said.

And he snorted, shook his head and refrained from pointing out that it wasn't nice to expect him to do as the man says and not as he does. He had been impulsive growing up, his father had made that clear to him but he hadn't learned what duty and honour and brotherhood truly meant until he had met the three musketeers that day in the garrison. He had learned it all from these three – two, d'Artagnan corrected himself. _He_ hadn't upheld those qualities when they had asked him to four years ago.

"Athos!"

They both turned to Porthos who was making their over to them with a horse in tow.

"No, no," Athos was already shaking his head.

"Yes,"

"I can't, the others –"

"Don't have cracked ribs that would make them short of breath while running," Porthos told him.

Brown eyes met blue.

Porthos smirked and Athos pursed his lips, grabbing the reins of the horse. D'Artagnan smiled even as he felt something twist and knot up in his stomach. They were low on gunpowder and the supplies hadn't reached them yet. He looked back to the enemy and checked his pistol.

" _Hold your arm steady and sight down the barrel. Wait until you're sure of your target. With one ball you only have one chance."_

Unbidden in his mind flashed that morning at Pinon and _his_ words lingered, calm and confident like _his_ finger hovering over the trigger. D'Artagnan loaded his pistol and set it back in his belt. Pulled out his sword as Athos stepped into the stirrup and settled in the saddle, his teeth clenched against the jarring pain that d'Artagnan knew his ribs would have rattled with.

He glanced over at Porthos, saw that he had noticed it too and nodded to the man. They would watch out for their brother and they would come out of this alive; the three of them, together. Athos looked down at them and his grim face softened.

"Stay safe," Athos said.

"Both of you," Porthos nodded.

"All of us," d'Artagnan smirked.

Then they were off. Forward. Towards the spears and the muskets and the swords; under the hail of metal and over the dead and wounded falling in their path. Too many fell, but not one of the enemies. In the din of the battle d'Artagnan couldn't shake off the sense of danger that he hadn't felt in battles before, the feel of too many dying on their side like they had never before.

Where was the cover fire?

There had to be a cover fire.

But the enemy cannons boomed in the distance, the air pulsed and the earth reverberated under the force of metal big and small. And d'Artagnan felt horror seize his chest when Athos' horse went down. He may have screamed but it didn't reach his own ears, everything in him was too focused upon the man who was turning on his back on the ground. Too close to the enemy soldiers, too far from him, d'Artagnan pushed through the bodies swarming before him, too far, too far.

Athos grasped his sword and the Spanish soldier aimed his spear.

D'Artagnan broke through the ranks and stopped the spear from piercing his Captain. On Athos' other side Porthos stopped the blade heading for Athos and smashed into the enemy like a force of nature. They flanked him as the man found his feet and the battle raged in a haze of blood, dirt and screams. Before Athos's voice rang out.

"Retreat!"

D'Artagnan turned away, too in tune to that voice and that tone to physically deny the order even when his mind found it trouble to comply. He turned back just in time as the cannon balls ripped the air, hitting the ground at his heels in a powerful blow. He was pulled along towards their side and suddenly found himself in a ditch with Athos and Porthos.

"The artillery has no powder, no ammunition," d'Artagnan realized.

"We have nothing to throw at them," Porthos growled.

Where was their cover, d'Artagnan wanted to ask. They always had that hadn't they he frowned, because yes they had lost men but not this many, never with so little losses on the other side. Even when they had been nearly run over the enemy had sustained losses. It seemed like none of their weapons were finding their marks.

His thoughts came to a halt as Athos dashed from the cover they had found for themselves.

"Athos!"

But the man was riding out towards the top of the hill where the General's tents were. Cannon fire shook the world around them and pressed against the dirt wall of the ditch d'Artagnan prayed that others of his regiment had found some cover too. As much as he wanted to see out over the edge he couldn't risk it with the cannons firing at them.

He grabbed onto Athos as the man suddenly slid back in the ditch, stopping at his side. He was vaguely aware of the Captain saying something about taking out the cannons but d'Artagnan had something else with in his sights. If this was to be his last battle, if this was his chance to save the brother in arms he had left then he needed to move, to act. It was past the time for plans and strategies.

"Attack," d'Artagnan said.

And scrambled out of the ditch.

"Attack! Attack!" he charged ahead.

Vaguely aware that what little army they had left was at his back, he grabbed the spear he found lying in his path and moved headlong towards the neat lines of the Spanish army. The battle sparked anew but this time he moved with an aim, as they broke through the ranks and defenses d'Artagnan had one thing on his mind.

He wasn't looking to blow the canons, no.

"Powder! Shoot the powder!" Athos screamed.

D'Artagnan raised his pistol and aimed and suddenly found the weapon flying from his hand as two enemy soldiers descended on him. But from the corner of his eye he saw Porthos charging ahead. He parried with the men blocking his way, trying to reach his friend and then the world exploded; again and again and again.

* * *

The world rattled around him.

Shuddered and quaked and Porthos curled further. His breath stilling in his lungs as he dared not move until there were no more explosions; until all there was left was the ringing in his ears, the dirt burning in his nostrils and the taste of gunpowder on his tongue. Pushing away the Spanish soldier he had been struggling with before he managed to shoot the powder, Porthos stood up on shaky legs.

Squinted in the haze of dust as the loud silence rang in his head and he spotted Athos. Stumbling towards the man coming to him Porthos grabbed his brother in an embrace. The blue eyes that met his understood his question without needing the words that neither were able to form and they moved as one where last he had seen d'Artagnan.

Rolling aside the dead Spanish soldiers they found their brother. And Porthos found his throat closing that had nothing to do with the dust he was breathing in. Falling to his knees he grabbed their youngest's face and shook him slightly.

"d'Artagnan?"

He came around with a gasp.

Porthos patted him on the shoulder and stood back up, heaving the younger man to his feet with Athos' help. But d'Artagnan fell back the moment they straightened and Porthos decided to wait. To let them all just breathe as those who had been away from the blasts began forcing the remaining Spanish men to surrender.

Porthos picked the bottle of wine off of a dead soldier and breaking away the seal took a mouthful. It was for nothing more than to clean the grit he seemed to have taken a mouthful of. Spitting it out, he tossed the bottle away.

"Spanish," he said by the way of explanation.

"We did it," d'Artagnan spoke from his side.

And a glance towards the younger man told him that his friend was still reeling from the force of the blasts. Grabbing d'Artagnan by the arm he began to maneuver him up the defenses that their enemy had built and towards some medical help. He looked back to Athos over his shoulder and the Captain nodded back; assuring him that he would follow once it was obvious there was no more threat.

Porthos pulled his friend along until he found Basile.

"He got blown over,"

"How close was he?" Basile asked as he moved closer to peer into d'Artagnan's eyes.

"Close enough," Porthos said.

"Nothing visible, no blood from his mouth, ears or nose," Basile said with a nod, "sit him down, he just needs to find his balance again."

As if he had been waiting for the very words d'Artagnan flopped down to the floor, Porthos held on, half worried that the younger man had lost consciousness but a glance told him all was fine. D'Artagnan offered him a smile and sat in the dirt with his knees pulled slightly as he hung his head and just breathed. All around them the Spanish were tossing aside their weapons. They had won. They had lived through this. But as his gaze went over the battlefield Porthos couldn't ignore the losses they had borne for this victory. He looked back the way they had come and found Athos as a lonely figure at the edge of the Spanish trench.

Porthos rested a hand on the back of d'Artagnan's head.

"You will be alright on your own for a while?" he asked his friend.

D'Artagnan nodded and Porthos left him there to pull Athos away and get him under Basile's care. The man had been injured before this battle started and he had taken a bad fall off of his horse at least; Porthos wondered if there were other injuries that his friend suffered from that he didn't know about. He hurried his steps when he saw Athos slide down the other side of the slope.

He found Athos staring across the battlefield full of the fallen soldiers. Coming up behind his friend he laid a hand on his arm to get his attention.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"A man, a figure,"

"Only the crows have business down there," Porthos assured him.

* * *

He nodded but didn't look away.

The dark figure in the distance was no more than a shadow cast in the dirt and smoke that filled the air. Yet Athos couldn't keep the apprehension from taking root in his gut and spreading out in his veins, alerting every sense and trailing gooseflesh on his skin. Whatever it was, whoever, friend or foe he couldn't un-see that it had been there. And his mind went back to what he had heard and seen during his captivity; confusion twisting his confidence from earlier and questioning again what had been real and what had been imagined during that time.

He shook his head and looked away.

It wasn't possible that _he_ had been there, just as it couldn't be that Anne had stood there and enjoyed his suffering. She had left him and so had _he_.

"Come Athos, you need to let Basile check you over,"

Porthos grasped his arm but he shook it away, anger bubbling under his skin and fists clenched at his sides. The same absurd helplessness quivered in his bones when General Lantier had told him to hold the line without their artillery at their back. This was ridiculous, was this how those deployed on other fronts were going through most of the time he wondered.

"A waste," he grit his teeth, "good men butchered because they weren't provided with the support promised to them,"

"The supply wagons didn't reach us,"

"Why?" Athos snapped, "they had up till now, so why not this time?"

Porthos' eyes widened, as if he had just realized the oddity of them not receiving their supplies, as if he just understood the cost they had paid for that delay. But Athos was done standing around thinking of solutions; it was General Lantier who had taken charge of their ammunition so that was the man who would have to answer this.

His suspicion stirred when they didn't find the General in his tent his and when he found out that General Lantier had asked for the maps of their supply routes before taking off Athos had to keep his anger in check. There was still no proof that he was the one who had been selling information about their supply routes Athos reminded himself; something that was lent weight when he found the General's severed hand.

As the soldier he had ordered to ready the horses left the tent General Garth stepped in; his dark eyes immediately finding the bloody appendage on the desk.

"Someone meant business," he said, looking from one man to the other as he walked up to them, "General Lantier's?"

Porthos nodded.

"He went off with someone," d'Artagnan informed him, "most likely with the man who did this,"

"Slim chances of you finding him alive then," the General said, "whoever this man is clearly he doesn't take lightly to refusal."

But looking around the tent Athos had a sinking feeling that there was something else going on. Had General Lantier refused to something he wondered and searched for any signs of an altercation that may prove it. There was something he was not seeing, something obvious.

"There was no struggle," he said, "This man was in the General's tent and he didn't raise alarm, didn't fight back."

General Garth's eyes narrowed at the implication but Athos found a grim understanding dawning in friends' faces. They knew of the spy in their midst and he saw the second they realized what he was implying. General Lantier had been friendly towards and unknown soldier, one who had apparently cut his hand of.

"We will scout the supply routes and report back," Porthos nodded.

"You are supposed to head back to Paris today," General Garth said.

"The day isn't over General," Athos reminded him and hurried out to where their rides awaited.

* * *

They rode in silence.

Fast and hard.

Up the terrain and into the thicket, along the trails they had come across while on their way to rescue Athos. If there was a traitor in their midst d'Artagnan promised himself to drag that man responsible for the losses that day back to Paris with them. They had enough enemies at the borders; they didn't need more amongst themselves. As the horses galloped along the curving path d'Artagnan's is eyes narrowed, even from between the gaps among the trees he could tell there were bodies scattered ahead. They eased their horses to a stop at the edge of the massacre.

The dead were left at the edges of the road, there were no horses or wagons and after living on the frontlines for so long d'Artagnan couldn't ignore that none of the dead had drawn their weapons. They weren't attacked; those who had killed these men had marched right up to them to do the deed.

"This wasn't an ambush, it was an execution," he said.

And as if summoned by his words the bell tolled in the distance.

Trouble beckoned and they answered.

The sight of the dead they had left behind urged them forward to seek the culprits and d'Artagnan wasn't really surprised when they saw a lad running towards them screaming for help. He was dismounting even as the others pulled their horses to a stop. The lad looked no more than sixteen and d'Artagnan felt the panic in the young one's breath cut deep; children should never look that scared. He reached out to grab the boy as he nearly fainted on his back and eased him up. Sat him on a tree stump and offered him his canteen.

The lad's hand shook badly even as he gulped down the proffered water. D'Artagnan glanced to his friends and found them waiting for him to make a move; apparently since he had been the one to reach the boy first it was his responsibility to make him talk.

"Now why were you looking for help?" he turned back to the lad.

"I'm Luc I – I – we live at the monastery. These men – men with weapons took over our monastery,"

And d'Artagnan felt something in him shiver. He knew there was only one monastery in this area near enough. The one where they had left _him_ , the one where their once friend resided. A strange fear trickled down his spine because if the monastery was taken does that mean _he_ was in danger; or had _he_ put up a fight to protect it and suffered for it, d'Artagnan shook his head because no, _he_ had given up that life, _he_ wouldn't remember how to fight after all these years.

The lad said something about the Abbot being killed and d'Artagnan looked to his friends again and knew from Porthos' grim face and Athos' carefully blank one that they had realized the same about this monastery.

"Shouldn't we report back what we found here? It's our duty as soldiers," Porthos turned to Athos.

And d'Artagnan felt something tighten in his gut at the thought of being ordered back from this.

"We're also Musketeers." Athos said.

A light smirk on his lips and a grin touched d'Artagnan's face. Because _he_ may have abandoned them and forsaken the bonds of their brotherhood, _he_ may be a deserter who had turned his back to his duty but they were not. They were Musketeers, they would honour their responsibility and the friendship they once had. But from the corner of his eye he saw how Porthos' gaze darkened even as they tied their horses to the trees and moved up the slope Luc lead them upon. The boy took them to the entrance of the tunnel that he told them he had used to escape.

Dropping down into the damp air d'Artagnan squinted as his eyes adjust to the dim light underground. The damp air slid into the gap between his clothes and his armour and he suppressed a shiver. As silently as they could they moved among the tunnels dappled sporadically with the light from narrow gaps high in the walls. With his sword in his hand and his other on the pistol at his side d'Artagnan stayed close to Luc's heels as he led them deeper.

"There's a cellar up ahead," the boy whispered over his shoulder, "you can enter the monastery from there,"

As the arch of the cellar came into view, something flitted ahead. Grabbing Luc by the arm d'Artagnan shoved him behind them as they rushed on ahead.

"Who's there?"

The barrels fell in their path.

"Show yourself!"

The sacks toppled over and they stepped over them in a rush. Three swords pointed at the figure they had cornered between a shelf and the wall.

"Stop! Stop!" Luc called out, "Not him. That's –"

Three pairs of eyes stared as the man stepped out of the shadows. And the name, that through an unspoken agreement none of them had said out loud for four years, fell from d'Artagnan's lips like a curse shattering.

"Aramis,"

* * *

 _ **We passed upon the stairs, we spoke of was and when**_

 _ **Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend**_

 _ **Which came as some surprise, I spoke into his eyes**_

 _ **I thought you died alone, a long long time ago.**_

 _ **Oh no, not me**_

 _ **I never lost control**_

 _ **You are face to face**_

 _ **With the man who sold the world.**_

– _**David Bowie; [The Man Who Sold The World.]**_

* * *

 **END**


End file.
